Picking Up the Pieces
by ChunkyMunky241
Summary: When a journalist uncovers who Capsule Corp's newest house guest is, the paparazzi aren't the only ones interested. With the remnants of an intergalactic empire dropping in out of the blue, can Bulma's genius help Vegeta against his old enemies? In-canon.
1. Confection Deflection

PICKING UP THE PIECES

Summary: When an intrepid journalist uncovers the secret of Capsule Corp.'s newest house guest, the paparazzi aren't the only ones interested. The androids may be looming on the horizon, but with the remnants of an intergalactic empire dropping in out of the blue, they have to take a backseat to this new threat. Can Bulma's genius help the Saiyan Prince against his old enemies? It's the infamous 3 years-in space!

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ. If I did, I would not be feeling guilty about writing this instead of grading student papers and forming my research into something presentable for a panel of my superiors. I would be feeling awesome and probably make a movie or something. Then I would rub my face in all of my delicious money.

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><p>CHAPTER ONE – Confection Deflection<p>

"Miss Brief, Miss Brief!"

Flashbulbs began going off in every direction as a set of sleek black pumps stepped out of the car. A small swarm of eager journalists gave way to the open door, backing up to keep the sight within view of their cameras.

"Miss Brief, do you have anything to say about your father's decision?"

"Can you comment on what you have in store for the company?"

"How does it feel to step into your father's shoes?"

Stepping out in her cleanly pressed pencil skirt, Bulma Brief brushed a few aqua curls from her eyes before levelling a sweeping gaze at the surrounding paparazzi. Several dozen microphones immediately appeared in front of her before she could take three steps from the car.

"Are there going to be any changes in Capsule Corp. now that you're the new president?"

Bulma cleared her throat, trying not to blink too much as more cameras flashed in her face. Adjusting the sleeves of her cream-coloured suit jacket, she smiled faintly in response to the pressing faces.

"I'm only the acting president. I'm not planning any real changes to Capsule Corp."

"But Miss Brief!" The journalists began dogging her as she made her way from the car to her home compound. Surrounding her on all sides, the crowd of reporters, journalists, and cameramen attempted to match her movement, morphing, amoeba-like, away from Bulma as she pressed forward, and closing back in once out of her direct path.

"Why hasn't there been any official word about the change?"

Bulma shifted her briefcase away from the ZTV reporter as he leaned in with his microphone. "Like I said, I'm only acting director. It's not that big of a change."

"Is it true that your father is grooming you to take over the company in the future?" a portly woman with pencils in her hair held a small recording device near Bulma's dangling earrings.

"Hardly," the blue-haired woman laughed. "My father's just too caught up in his current research right now. He wanted to make sure that the company didn't suffer in his absence."

"Current research?" a man trailing behind her jotted the information down on his notepad. "Does this mean we can expect a new line of devices from Capsule Corp. soon?"

"We're still looking into the possibilities right now," Bulma did not look back at him. "It's too early to be sure about his particular project, but we do have some others in the communications field."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Not yet."

"Excuse me," two men with an overly large camera shoved their way to the fore. "Was the move of Capsule Corp.'s headquarters your idea or your father's?"

"Both, actually. Things have been getting a little crowded ever since we branched out beyond the DynoCaps. The new West City headquarters should be big enough to house all of our projects now."

"Does this mean you're breaking your agreement with manufacturing plants like Wright Materials?"

Bulma smirked a little at that. "Not at all. We plan to remain in close contact with them."

"Miss Brief!" a young-looking woman practically jumped in front of her. Her eyes were eager as she snapped a quick picture of the startled acting president, and with her too-tight T-shirt stretching the words 'NewzPop' over her breasts, Bulma immediately pegged her as a gossip blogger. The girl squeaked out her question in a high-pitched voice, holding her personal camera up to her face. "Will you be moving out of your parent's compound now that you're the head of the company?"

"I'm not the head of the company," Bulma's brows furrowed at being forced to stop her progress home and at having to remind everyone yet again of her title. "I'm the _acting_ president until my father finishes his research," she shouldered her way around the girl, "and I refuse to comment on personal questions."

"Is it true that you're thinking of settling down with baseball phenomenon Yamcha?" the girl doubled back, fighting her way through the other impatient journalists.

"No comment."

"How is he handling your recent promotion?"

"No comment."

"What are your thoughts on the West City Starr's photos of him and celebrity trainer Sandy Raufer?"

"No comment."

"Is it true that you have a new man living with you at your parents' compound?"

"No comment!" Bulma managed to pull ahead of the group and pressed a button to slam the gate shut behind her, nearly shoving the attached 'no trespassing' sign into their paparazzi noses in the process.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped out of reach of the microphones and camera lenses. Slinging her briefcase over her shoulder, she stepped into the round yellow building she called home with a soft whoosh of the automatic doors.

The clean ecru walls gave off a warm feeling in the gold-tinged inset lighting, the calm only slightly disrupted by the whirring of the mechanical domestic assistants. Freshly vacuumed, the blue carpet opened up from a small foyer filled with photos to an expansive great room. The pitter-patter of kitchen utensils at work as well as some off-key humming drifted from the open doors to the left of the large entertainment centre.

"Bulma, dear, how was your first week at work?" Her mother looked up from what would soon be a pan of peanut butter swirl brownies.

"It went as well as I could expect, I guess," the younger woman took off her jacket and handed it to a passing servo-bot when she stepped into the kitchen, "but I'd still rather be in the lab. At least there no one asks you all sorts of personal questions," she sent a dirty glare to the tinted window at the front entrance to the compound.

"You'll get used to it soon enough," her mother tittered as she set down her spatula and flicked a stray blond curl from her forehead. "Besides, your father said he wanted to work on his project alone. We should just let the man do what he needs to," she smiled to her daughter. "Would you like a brownie? They'll be in and out of the oven in twenty minutes."

"No thanks, Mom," Bulma sighed as she pulled a can of soda pop out of the refrigerator. "I don't know why you bother with that anyway—we have robots for that sort of thing, you know."

"I know, dear," Mrs. Brief bent down, sliding the pan into the oven. "I just find baking so relaxing! Maybe you should try it," the cheerful blonde smiled at her daughter. "It would be good stress-relief for you."

"I already have stress-relief," Bulma fiddled with the tab on top of her drink. "I like building things, and figuring gadgets out," she sighed, "but I can't do that when I'm stuck in an office all day." Raising the can to her lips for a quick sip, she frowned. "And to top it all off, Dad won't even let me in on what he's doing. It's like he doesn't even have time for me! I can't stand it!" Bulma snapped the tab off the top of the can, punctuating her frustration.

"He'll let you know when he's ready," Mrs. Brief began washing the mixing bowl filled with brownie residue, unfazed.

"It's just so frustrating," Bulma clenched the tab in her hand. "I should be down there with him, building something to stop those stupid androids—not pushing paper and beating back cameras!"

"Well, it's no wonder there are so many cameras," Mrs. Brief spoke over her shoulder, "when they're following such a beautiful company president."

"Acting president, Mom," Bulma scowled. "It's only temporary."

"If you say so, sweetie," the vacuous blonde continued smiling. "But the new gate you installed seems pretty permanent."

Bulma rested her head on her fist. "I needed to put it there," her fingers twirled the soda tab around, "otherwise, we'd never get any privacy."

"It just doesn't seem very welcoming."

"That's the point," Bulma muttered.

"I know, dear, I know," her mother came over to put a reassuring hand on Bulma's shoulder.

Sighing, Bulma relented a little and allowed herself to relax a little more. "I just want to help out. With the whole future android mess, I feel like I should be doing more. Everyone's out there preparing for the end of the world, and I'm stuck in business meetings that won't even matter in three years."

"Well, Bulma dear," her mother's tone was warm and comforting, "I've never known you to give up before."

"Huh?" Bulma glanced up at the older woman behind her. "What do you mean?"

"I just think it's a little early to throw in the towel," Pansy Brief chimed. "I mean, you and your father do so many amazing things. Who's to say you can't do it all?"

A slow smile began to spread across Bulma's face. "You really think so?"

"Of course, sweetie," her mother gave her a hug. "You can do anything you set your mind to. You just have to ask yourself one question first."

"And what question is that?"

"Are you sure you don't want a brownie before you save the world?"

"Mo—m!"

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><p>Dr. Brief set down his screwdriver, lifting up a round contraption and scrutinizing it carefully. The small black cat on his shoulder gave a curious mew as he inspected the device. Turning it over again to check the front, he rubbed the metal disc with his sleeve before addressing the man behind him.<p>

"I've managed to increase the deflective capabilities of the droids," his cigarette bobbed up and down below his moustache as he spoke, "so they should last much longer this time."

"How much longer?" a gruff voice inquired.

"Well," the scientist pondered, "you said that the last time they broke down you had been . . . what did you call it? 'Powering up'?" the man scratched his chin, then shifted his hand over to appease his feline companion. "From what you tell me, that involves a large emission of energy that comes in all directions. The previous models were only designed to take energy blasts head-on. Hopefully the new program will enable them to create their own deflection field around the entire unit."

"So they'll be able to take hits from any side?"

"Precisely. Of course," the older man hesitated, "they're only able to guide the blast from this front panel. If you hit them in the back, the deflection will be random—not part of the training program."

"Fine."

The tiny cat gave a small, agitated nip to Dr. Brief's cheek, as if anticipating the man's disquiet. "But, Vegeta, I'm concerned," he turned to talk to the fighter.

Vegeta recognized the tone the doctor used whenever yet another complication had arisen. He crossed his arms, his muscles shifting under his white tank top. Leaning his head back, his upswept mass of dark hair splayed against the wall of the laboratory as his brows furrowed. His black eyes bored into the friendly doctor with an impatient intensity. "What is it now?"

"Well," Dr. Brief hedged, "even though the new droids are unlikely to be damaged by any energy blasts during your training, I'm not sure you can use them right away . . ."

"Why not?" Vegeta snapped at him, taking a few steps toward the older man and leaning in toward his face menacingly.

"Y-you see," Dr. Brief stammered as his cat's fur bristled up against his neck, "even though the droids are protected from the blasts, I just don't think the ship can take that kind of abuse. It's not really wise to use these in an enclosed space, and I'm afraid the gravity chamber just isn't made of tough enough stuff."

Vegeta stepped a little away from the man at this admission, reminded of the incident not so long ago where he had blown the top off the entire ship. He narrowed his eyes at the doctor. "But you are planning on reinforcing the walls," he phrased it as yet another demand rather than a question.

"Yes, of course," the good doctor pulled at his collar nervously before shuffling up a few blueprints on his workstation. "I'll have to, or else the next training session will blow a hole from the inside out. I'm just not sure yet what material I can use. It wouldn't do to have it made out of the same material as the droids. There'd be balls of energy bouncing all over the place—there'd never be an end to it!" He took a drag of his cigarette, settling his thoughts.

"Haven't you got any material that would absorb energy rather than reflect it?"

"Hmm?" Dr. Brief glanced back at his surly houseguest. Vegeta's arms were still firmly crossed in irritation, but one of his scowling brows had quirked up, inquiring.

"I don't know of any material on earth that could—"

Vegeta let out a small snort. "Tch. On earth . . ." he muttered. "Of course you don't—but you could make a synthetic alloy to line the walls."

This time Dr. Brief raised a brow. "You know of a metal with the right absorption properties?" Taking another deep breath, he exhaled a curious tendril of smoke from his cigarette and cleared off a portion of the table. "Let's see it then, my boy," he put a pad of paper down in the centre.

Rolling his eyes, Vegeta snatched the pencil being proffered. ". . . have to do everything myself," he muttered, scratching a formula on the pad.

Dr. Brief peered over his shoulder with the interest of a small child about to be given a Christmas present. "Fascinating," the old man's eyes gleamed from behind his large glasses. "The constant movement of that combination of molecules would speed up with the impact of the energy, but they wouldn't scatter . . . remarkable!"

"Just make sure you get it done quickly," Vegeta tossed the pad back on the table, pencil and all. "I've had enough setbacks already."

"Mmhmm," Dr. Briefs agreed absently as his eyes hungrily devoured the chemical compounds. "Simply remarkable . . . the applications . . ." His cat purred in agreement.

Vegeta made his way over to the exit. "I expect it to be done first thing in the morning," he insisted, and seeing the older man heavily engrossed in the chemical formulae on the page, took it as an agreement. Pushing the button to open the lab doors, he only narrowly managed to dodge the blue-haired mass of curls that had suddenly lost her position pressing her ear to the door. She fell at his feet.

"Oof!" Bulma rubbed her face, which had collided with the floor.

"Bulma?" Dr. Brief finally tore his eyes away from the notepad. "What are you doing here?"

"I . . . uh," Bulma propped herself back up to her knees. "I—Mom sent me over to ask if you wanted any dinner," she lied quickly, embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping.

"Oh," her father blinked. "Well, I've already had something to tide me over, and it looks like I'll be in here a while," he stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "But if she's making those brownies of hers, I think I could squeeze in a little break."

Vegeta sidestepped Bulma without looking down. "Meddling woman," he muttered, stalking down the hallway.

Bulma stuck out her tongue at his retreating form. Then, turning back to her father she gave a hopeful smile. "Hey, Dad, what're you working o—"

"Do you think he'll want a brownie?" her father interrupted, also walking toward the door.

"I—what?" Bulma stammered. "Vegeta? Why would he? Most of the time the robots just bring him his food in his room. Now about your research—"

"Uh uh," Dr. Brief waved a chastising finger at her. "Not until it's ready," he put a hand on her shoulders and guided her out of the lab. "You know I like to wait until I can show off the finished product."

"Just a peek?" Bulma implored. "I just want to help."

"But you are helping, dear," her father smiled affably. "I can't run a company and keep up with making training tools for Vegeta at the same time. I need someone to help things run smoothly."

"But Da—d! I'm a scientist, not a businesswoman," she huffed.

"Nonsense. I'm sure you're a natural," Dr. Brief pressed on as they walked across the lawn. "You've never had any trouble getting people to do things your way. I'm sure you'll get the hang of running Capsule Corp. in no time. Oh, and speaking of the company," the two of them walked into the main building, "how is that communications project going?"

"Well, we've managed to isolate the circuit from that scouter, so we should be able to implement it into a cell phone soon, but I really think we should be working on projects that will help out against the andr—"

"You mean you haven't implemented it already?" he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as the two of them walked through the front doors of the main building. "I would have thought you'd get that translation circuit faster than that."

"Well, with the whole moving headquarters and all, it kind of got lost in the shuffle," Bulma began to get frustrated. "If I could just get some time in the lab to work it out myself—"

"Oh there you are!" Pansy Brief cheered with delight upon seeing her husband. "I just knew you'd come out of that dingy old lab for some of my scrumptious treats!"

Dr. Brief licked his lips in anticipation. "Are they the peanut butter swirl ones?"

"Of course!" Pansy waved a potholder over the plate of steaming chocolate confections to cool them down. "How could I forget your favourite?"

"Wonderful!" Dr. Brief nearly hopped over to the countertop, his fingers wiggling eagerly. "I'll have three, dear."

"Coming right—"

"Ugh! How can you guys be so calm?" Bulma stomped her foot. "The world as we know it is going to end in less than three years, and you're more worried about brownies than getting help to build something to save us!"

Her parents blinked at her tirade. "But," her father started, brown crumbs in his moustache, "they're peanut butter swirl."

"You're hopeless!" Bulma stormed up the stairs to her room. "Hopeless!" A door slammed on the floor above.

"Oh my," Pansy remarked. "So moody! She must be stressed from work. I'll make her some tea."

Dr. Brief nodded, inhaling another brownie.

* * *

><p>Slim, pale fingers flew over the keys, tapping in coordinates. The small screen displayed several sets of images that loaded sequentially, the windows popping up over each other. Evergreen forests, barren rock formations, and peaceful coasts stacked up one after the other, a small timestamp in the bottom right corner of each. As the screen flickered another set of still images, Bulma took a sip of coffee, her frown still set in place.<p>

"It's got to be here somewhere," she grumbled to herself, scanning backward through the images. She rolled up the sleeves of her fluffy robe and clicked faster, nearly downing the rest of her coffee. "He has to come out some time—at least to eat or something!" Her mug slammed down on her desk.

Bulma clicked open another program, quickly hacking through the government encryptions. Another set of images came up, and she flicked through them quickly, her eyes scanning each crag, tree, and canyon for anything out of place within the satellite photographs. "You can't hide forever, Doctor," she muttered to herself. "I don't care what Goku says—_nobody_ destroys my planet with science while I'm around."

Closing the program and opening another, Bulma barely had time to navigate a few lines of encrypted code before she heard a small buzzing beside her. Muttering about the hour, she rummaged through her purse, pulling out receipts, cosmetics, and packs of cigarettes before finally coming to her vibrating cell phone. She glanced at the display quickly and took the call.

"Yamcha, what is it?"

"Bulma, where are you?"

"What do you mean where am I? I'm at home. Why wouldn't I—oh."

There was an audible sigh on the other line. "You forgot again."

"I'm sorry, Yamcha. I've just . . . I've been so busy," Bulma rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"I thought we agreed you'd get off work early on Fridays so we could go out together."

"I know—I mean, I did . . . it just . . . I—"

"It slipped. I get it," Yamcha's words did not manage to cover his disappointment.

"Are there any other movies playing? Maybe a later showing?"

"Bulma, it's after eleven now. The last showing was at 10:30."

"Oh, right," Bulma cursed herself for losing track of the time.

"Look, I know you've been busy, babe," Yamcha went on, "but I want to spend as much time with you as I can."

"I'll make it up to you. Why don't we meet for lunch tomorrow? My treat."

"Couldn't I just come over tonight and we could hang out? I mean, that's all we really need, right?" she could almost hear his goofy grin on the other end. "We don't need excuses like movies or restaurants."

"Oh Yamcha," Bulma glanced around her room, noting the stacks of scientific journals and notebooks full of various computations before her eyes looked a little forlornly at the sifting satellite images on her screen. "I've still got some stuff I want to work on tonight."

"Oh."

"Tomorrow, though. I promise I won't forget," Bulma insisted, a little disturbed by how deflated his response had sounded.

"All right then," he was still not as appeased as she had hoped.

"Yamcha," Bulma pulled her eyes away from the screen to keep herself focused. She stood up and walked over to her balcony door. "What's wrong?"

"I just . . . I can't stop thinking about these androids."

"Yeah," she slid open the door and stepped outside. "Neither can I." The stars peeked out beyond a few drifting clouds in the night, shimmering distantly.

"I mean, we've only got just a little over two years left," anxiety tinged the timbre of his voice. "I just think we should . . . before it all . . ."

"We should definitely work as hard as we can," Bulma supplied for him. "We'll beat those guys. I just know it."

"But what if . . . if we . . ." his throat had tightened a little. "I just want . . . to make sure that we . . . don't waste the time we have."

"We'll do everything we can, Yamcha. I'll meet you for lunch tomorrow and then you can get back to training right away. How does that sound?"

His voice was barely audible. "Bulma, I meant we should—"

"How about we go to the trattoria just down the street from my house?" Bulma apparently had not heard him. "That way you can come by and train on the lawn and I can go back to the lab."

A pause. "Yeah. Fine. Okay," he conceded.

"All right. I'll see you tomorrow at twelve-thirty. We'll finish up around one and you can get down to business, all right?"

"All right."

Bulma ended the call with a long exhale of breath. A soft breeze brushed her blue curls in front of her face, and she ran a hand through them, glad that she had let her hair grow out long enough to make her perm more manageable. Pulling the tumbling waves to one side of her neck, she gazed out beyond the balcony railing into the deep violet sky. The expanse of stars seemed unusually bright for the city this night, and she could almost see the streaks of minor celestial bodies spread in ribbons across the inky darkness, dotted with larger, closer ones. She took a deep breath, smelling the autumn air. Summer had gone, though it seemed like only a few weeks ago she had narrowly avoided an explosive end on planet Namek, so very far away from home.

"That was such a crazy day," she smiled to herself, thinking out loud. "One minute I'm almost blown into bits of space dust, and the next I'm on earth with a bunch of aliens living in my home." She sighed and rested her head in her hand, leaning on the cool railing of the balcony. Something stirred in her chest at her memories of gallivanting across the universe with Gohan and Krillin, hunting dragonballs like she was sixteen again. "It can't be over yet," she mumbled. "There's so much more to see," her blue eyes reflected the sparkling sky, as if willing it to show her what she was missing. Bulma scanned the expanse of darkness across the tops of the rounded buildings of West City, from her right to her left, until they stopped, settling on the outer wall of her own house.

Not three doors down, another figure looked up at the sky from a balcony. Almost blending into the deep night, Vegeta sat on the railing, perched with one knee up toward his chest, the other dangling down the side. His sharp features were directed up and outward, as if penetrating through the darkness to find something. His tense form radiated a sense of seething urgency, burning just below the surface of his taut muscles, and his hand, which draped over his upright knee, clenched with a slowly pulsating pressure.

The chilled autumn wind barely ruffled his flame-shaped mane and hardly fazed him as he sat, hardened like stone. His face betrayed nothing, his lips in a straight, impassive line though his eyes kept searching the sky.

Gazing at him in profile against the curvature of the rounded building, Bulma blinked suddenly when his eyes caught hers. With a quick glower, Vegeta got up from the railing and stalked inside without a word.

"Touchy," Bulma blew a curl from her eyes before turning her head back to the view of the stars. Closing her robe tighter in the cold, she blinked up into the night. "I wonder what it was he was looking for," she pondered before taking a step inside.

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><p>AN: A little expository introduction. Hope you enjoy.<p> 


	2. Invincible

CHAPTER TWO – Invincible

Disclaimer: I own nothing and really should be writing my thesis.

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><p>"<em>Increasing<em> _gravity simulation: 400 times planet's normal gravity_."

The ground wavered in the red warning lights of the chamber. There was a low hum that vibrated the floor, but the pieces of cracked tile remained stationary, pinned in place. Several round, metal droids hovered into a five-pronged formation, whirring at the ready, dispersing a small cloud of smoke that hung in the air.

A heavy knee fell to the floor. Panting, Vegeta held his side where he had fallen victim to one of his own attacks. His breath came out in ragged huffs as sweat dripped down his neck and back. Forcing his hand to move from his side with some effort, he noted the blood that tinged his palm and fingers with an irritated groan. "I can do more," he muttered. "I can do better."

He pulled his wet fingers into a tight fist, observing the new formation the robotic sentinels took. Unbidden, from the corner of his eye, he could almost see a flash of gold. His teeth clenched and he powered up another energy attack into his hand, smelling the blood that began to burn off into sickly brown wisps. "I can be better," he growled. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision. The red light of the trembling room began to shimmer into a fluttering orange gi, and with a feral snarl, Vegeta launched himself from the ground, hurling his energy in a quick, concentrated blast.

"I _will_ be better!" he screamed as the ball of energy whistled through the air at the sentinel droids.

With a quick deflected bounce back, the white light came rushing back toward him, and he thrust himself upwards to dodge it. A flash ricocheted from behind as a droid moved in to deflect it back. It brushed dangerously close to his cheek in a bright white streak, the sharp sting from its passing cutting his cheek like a silver-bladed sword.

"No!" he barked as the light came back at him. With a furious jerk of his forearm, he swatted the blast away, speeding its course to yet another droid. The image of another golden-haired fighter, slashing with his sword leapt before his eyes, and Vegeta clasped his hands together to pummel the blast away again. "I am the strongest!"

Back again, the ball of energy barrelled toward him. He dodged once more as the sentinels closed in, making each rebound quicker than the last. As the ball of light whizzed within inches of his ears, slamming into one droid after another, the metallic clanging echoed around him, like a hollow, twanging laughter.

"_Just wake up; you're blind and delusional_."

Vegeta swung wide to the right to avoid another blast, shoving a sentinel droid out of his way and opening up his fighting area. Their pattern broken, the droids shifted around, recalibrating a plan of attack, still bouncing the energy blast between them with that empty, mocking, clanking sound.

"_Such an ego. You really believe all that? A Super Saiyan?_"

Another blast, this time at his wounded side. Vegeta held his hands over it in defence, catching the blazing ball and using its momentum to swing round and hurl it back, singeing his fingers in the process. Panting, he could feel himself slowly descending as he began to tire, and he gave another burst upward to level himself.

"_I must say, somebody has some high hopes_."

He had flown right into it. The light was blinding and the impact shook the entire ship from its foundations. Propelled backward, his shoulder and side crunched against the reinforced walls of the chamber. As the light slowly began to fade, Vegeta felt himself slide down to the ground in a heavy heap. Coughing up a gout of dark red blood, he forced himself off his injured side and onto his knees.

He struggled to breathe as blood and air wrestled within his throat. After a few more wracking coughs, what appeared to be the remainder of the blood from his injuries came out, and his shoulders trembled with the exertion.

"How long," he managed to choke out, "how long must I keep fighting shadows?" Staggering up to his feet, he clenched his fists, stiffening his back and setting himself in position. "I need . . . a real fight," he panted. "I need to . . . to prove . . ." Glaring up at the whirring droids, he set his jaw.

"_If you have proven yourself worthy, perhaps someday you will become a Super Saiyan._"

The sweat fell from his forehead and into his eyes as he watched the sentinels set up in their default arrangement. Ignoring the burning in his muscles as he resisted the gravity's insistent pull, he widened his stance.

"_If you have proven yourself worthy . . ._"

He snarled at the central computer. "Again!"

* * *

><p>A manicured hand deftly tapped a stylus. "I've rescheduled your meeting with finance for tomorrow, filed all the legal reports, and gotten in contact with the Sage City Mountain resort."<p>

"And the patents?"

"All filed in your family name and assigned to Capsule Corporation proper. As soon as we have a viable prototype for the next batch of inventions, we'll be able to apply for those too."

"Perfect, you're a lifesaver," Bulma smiled, tying her curls back into a loose tail. Standing up from her desk, she pushed her large, padded chair back and turned to use her panoramic office window as a mirror.

"Heading out Ms. Brief?" the other woman scrolled down her tablet, checking the weekly calendar.

"Just down to Research and Development, Nancy," Bulma took off her necklace and set it in a drawer of her desk.

"I'll let them know," Nancy pulled up the extension on her screen. "I take it you'll be skipping your lunch today?"

"I'm sure I'll pick up something from the company café," the blue-haired acting president switched her herringbone blazer for a lab coat, straightening the lapel over her silk blouse. Shutting her laptop, she shuffled some papers around, rolling up a few of the blueprints with some of her own notes scrawled on the edges.

"And if Wright Materials calls?"

"Tell them we've got progress, but don't promise anything yet," Bulma stepped over to the door, shifting the blueprints in the crook of her arm. "We don't want them getting too ahead of themselves now," she winked back at her secretary as she walked out.

"Of course," Nancy jotted the information down in a pop-up sticky note in her neat shorthand.

"Oh, and Nancy?" Bulma called back over her shoulder. "Take a break! You're making my job too easy!" The door clicked shut.

"But . . . that's what you hired me for," the skinny brunette blinked in the now empty room.

Bulma laughed to herself as she strutted down the hallway, observing the industry of Capsule Corp.'s administrative employees housed at the top floor of headquarters. Computer screens flickered stock options, and men in business suits rushed by, shouting commands on their phones, trying to grab a quick coffee and a bagel in the process. Several interns, looking at a loss at a stack of paper files, shuffled them around into folders, moaning about how not all of the departments had gone completely digital. A few accountants enjoyed a chat at the water cooler, congratulating each other on yet another successful annual audit. Bulma gave a friendly wave as she waited at the elevators, revelling in how just a few good hires had managed both to speed up productivity immensely and to increase her time away from the desk.

With a light chime, the doors opened and she stepped inside, congratulating herself in particular on finding Nancy. "OCD, workaholic, stick-in-the-mud, but she makes things run like clockwork!" she mused.

Leaning against the wall of the elevator, Bulma gazed out at the rounded white buildings of downtown West City as she descended. The numbers above her head chimed as the city's skyscrapers grew taller outside the glass, eventually giving way to the manicured plants around the Capsule headquarters building, until the windows revealed nothing more than dark, smooth metal walls.

"_Basement Level 3: Research and Development Laboratories H—N_."

With a soft hiss, the doors of the elevator opened and Bulma stepped into a world of white. Immaculate surfaces stationed men and women in white coats, hurriedly soldering, prodding, sketching, analyzing, and assembling gadgets left and right. Several beeping scanners spat out dossiers of informative statistics while technicians scribbled down notes onto their blueprints and designs. Men and women in goggles hovered over chemical compounds, furiously adding information to their records as the test tubes in front of them started to emit blue smoke on the left side of the main laboratory area. An impromptu lecture was being held in the central station on the circuitry involved in the newest addition to the Capsule Corp. patent list.

"Ms. Brief!" A man with narrow glasses and ruffled hair rushed up at the sight of her. "What brings you down here?" he panted out when he reached her. "Come to think of it, how did you find the time?"

Bulma shrugged. "I finally got the hang of the whole management thing."

"Third week's the charm, huh?"

"Something like that, Mark," she addressed the young scientist, indicating that they should move out of the elevator entrance and down to one of the workstations. "How's the communications project going?" As the two of them briskly walked down the clean hall, they passed a myriad of whirring machines and screens flashing analytical data in a complex, angular code. Several interns stopped chatting and straightened up as the two higher-ranking scientists brushed by.

"We've got the prototypes up and running," Mark trotted up behind her, his lab coat billowing open around his argyle sweater vest. "We're still performing a few tests to see if we can't expand the translation chip tech to decode exclamations and sound effects from contextual clues algorithmically."

He led her over to another lab station surrounded by glass. Peering in, the two of them observed several lab technicians projecting a holographic model of how the proposed chip was to work with the other less-advanced components in a mobile telephone. The central image spun slowly to display all of the odd connective angles, and one tech punched in a few lines of code to display the proposed method of attaching the chip to the outlying circuitry within the phone. The other technicians jotted down a swath of notes as they observed the further applications for the project.

"Hm," Bulma nodded, noting the image's display giving the predicted compatibility success rate. "Not bad for just a tiny chip from a single old scouter."

"Not bad? It's incredible! With this new audio technology, you can translate speech instantaneously and you wouldn't get a dropped call even if you sent your phone to the moon!" Mark pushed back his glasses, which had slipped down the bridge of his nose in his excitement. He tried to contain the rising pitch of his voice. "The applications of it are going to be astounding—not to mention it's damn good job security."

Bulma smiled at his enthusiasm. "Well, if you like that, then I've got a real treat for you."

Mark eyed the blueprints under her arm hungrily. Rubbing his hands, he felt the sweat build up there like he was on a first date. "Are those . . . what I think they are?"

Waving the rolled-up sheet in front of her top scientist teasingly, Bulma responded in a little sing-song voice. "Guess who just got the newest results of her dad's research . . ."

"Gimme, gimme, gimme!" Mark snatched one of them out of her hands, unfolding it in a swift motion onto the workstation. "Oh, wow," he whistled. "High energy impact . . . malleable metal alloy . . . this is . . ." there were almost tears of joy in the excitable scientist's eyes, "this is almost too good to be true! Can you imagine if we made cars out of this stuff?"

Bulma nodded. "I know," she leaned over and pointed to her own notations on the side of the sheet. "If we could use it to coat the chassis of a vehicle, fatal car crashes would be a thing of the past."

Stars nearly danced from Mark's eyes. "Please tell me you pooled the resources for this new project already."

"What do you take me for?" Bulma scoffed at him. "Of course I did!"

Mark could barely contain himself. "With tech like this, Capsule Corp. will be . . . no, we'll be . . . we'll . . ."

Rosy lips pulled in a smug smirk. "We'll be unstoppable," Bulma finished for him.

* * *

><p>The wire cords zipped taut and pulled a clanking mass behind them. Retreating, the metal weights clattered back in place, and the cords slid upward. Another tight tug, and the weights were lifted again, climbing up the back of the exercise machine. Hard muscles bunched and rippled, abdominals tensing as they guided the rest of the core upward. A single bead of sweat dripped down a strong back as full biceps forced the wire cords forward and the metal weights up.<p>

"This is too easy," came a mumble.

"You can't overdo it, Yamcha," Puar cautioned with a small squeak. "Remember last time—"

"Yeah, I remember," the fighter sighed at the thought of how much money he had had to pay the gym when he had damaged their weight lifting equipment. Another pull at the weights, and they rose with ease. "This isn't going to get me anywhere, though."

"You could train with Krillin," the small blue feline circled around the back of the machine.

"He said he wanted to train alone for now," Yamcha frowned with another rep, his grey tank hardly even dampened from his lacklustre workout. "And Tien and Chaozu are practically inseparable. I'd be a third wheel."

"What about Goku?" the small cat added helpfully, his ears twitching.

Yamcha let out an exasperated huff of air. "He's got Piccolo and Gohan to train with," the weights clanked down again. "Besides, you know I'm nowhere near their level."

"But think how much you'd improve!" Puar insisted. "You'd get better in no time."

"There's no point," the scarred fighter released the wire cords. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I'd just slow them down."

Puar's ears drooped a little. "But if you build up your strength—"

"It's not going to cut it," Yamcha snarled. "You know what happened when I tried to train at a higher level—I was almost squashed to death by that gravity machine and it took me over a week to recover!"

"You just tried to do too much too fast," Puar amended.

"I need training that's more at my level if I'm going to get anywhere," Yamcha pondered. "But I can't do it with just a couple weights. We're going to be fighting a battle—I need to fight with someone—a real person—who isn't going to wipe the floor with me," he turned to his companion a little sadly.

Puar's eyes had gone wide and he nudged Yamcha's cheek a little urgently. "Don't look now, Yamcha, but that scary aerobics instructor is coming your way."

"Not that Sandy Raufer lady again," Yamcha paled, scanning across the weight room only to have his fears confirmed by a mess of crimped blond hair bobbing up and down at the far end. "It's like she's stalking me!"

"Well, she probably is. She said she's a fan of yours," Puar commented. "I think she likes you."

"No kidding," Yamcha ducked when he saw her head turn in his direction. Just the thought of those eyes heavy with blue eye shadow batting in his direction made him shudder. Crawling toward the exit, he silently made his way around the equipment when a piercing voice made him turn blue in the face.

"Have you seen that stud-muffin Yamcha anywhere?"

"Huh? You mean the baseball guy? Well, he was here a minute ago . . ."

The sense of dread at being discovered almost overwhelmed him and he decided with a quick leap to make a run for it. Sprinting down the hallway and past the aerobics and yoga classes, he zipped into the men's locker room, huffing a little at his narrow escape.

"Yamcha," Puar floated in behind him, "I thought you weren't afraid of girls anymore. Are you having a relapse?"

Yamcha set his hands on his knees and took a few quick breaths. "I'm not . . . afraid . . . of all girls . . . just that one."

"I don't know, she seems nice to me," Puar quirked a brow.

"Sure she's nice . . . and crazy," the fighter blew some hair from his eyes. "She's a fan girl—she doesn't leave me alone! I took one lousy aerobics dance class with her, and she's been tailing me ever since!"

"Well, don't tell Bulma about it," the blue cat squeaked nervously. "You know she always draws the wrong conclusions."

Recovering his breath, Yamcha leaned up against a locker, crossing his arms. "Not that she'd even notice now," he grumbled.

"What do you mean?"

Yamcha stared at the ground intently. "Things have just been so different since I got back. I thought once I was wished back to life, we'd be . . . I don't know . . . getting serious and settling down . . . now I'm lucky if I get to see her at all."

"Do you think she's found someone else?"

"No," Yamcha frowned. "It's nothing like that—it's just that she's always thinking about work. She never seems to even think about going on dates anymore, let alone . . . getting . . . you know," he tapered off with a meaningful look to his companion.

Puar took it up. "Getting married?"

"I don't even know if she'd say yes," he sighed. "It's been over ten years—you'd think we were _already_ married by now!" His tone became frustrated. "Ever since we heard about those androids, I've just been afraid that I won't have enough time . . ."

"You mean you don't think we can win?"

The breath Yamcha exhaled felt like it came from a hollow pit in his stomach. "It's . . . not exactly that. I just . . . I don't know. I can't stand this not knowing!" he pounded a fist into the locker behind him. "What that guy from the future told Goku was that we all die except Gohan and Bulma. I don't know if I can do enough in the time I've got left to face that kind of enemy—an enemy strong enough to send a Super Saiyan running to the past for help."

With a shaky breath, he almost whispered, "I don't want to end up dying before I've had the chance to really live."

"Yamcha," Puar floated over to his hand and held it reassuringly. "You can't keep thinking like that. It'll eat away at you until there's nothing left. What happened to the old Yamcha who wasn't afraid of anything? The one who always wanted to face challenges head-on, and who got too excited to stop himself from joining in any fight he could?"

Yamcha scoffed. "He got killed by a stupid green vegetable man."

"Stop it," the cat tugged his arm sternly. "Thinking that way doesn't solve anything. It won't help you in the fight and it won't help you keep Bulma."

Finally relaxing his form, Yamcha glanced over at his furry blue companion. "You're right," he smiled with a half-hearted pull at the corner of his mouth. "If I want to spend more time with Bulma, I'll need to figure out a way to make myself strong enough to survive those androids."

"That's the spirit," Puar grinned, tugging the tall fighter out of the gloomy locker room and hopefully out of his funk. "Let's get back to work!" he chimed as the two of them began walking out the door into the hallway.

"Now I just need to find a partner with the right fighting lev—oof!" he bumped into something small, soft, and femininely rounded. Hardly looking before he backed up, he let out a small, involuntary yelp. "Oh no, she found me!"

"Huh?" a warm alto voice questioned. "Found you? I wasn't looking for you."

Yamcha blinked from his crouched defensive position at the woman in front of him, who was decidedly not Sandy Raufer. Her dark hair was tied in a tail that gave off a slight indigo shine when it hit the light in its thick waves. Brown eyes with questioning brows stared back at him as she shifted a duffel bag on her shoulder. Crossing her arms over her yellow sports bra and tank, she gave a slightly amused smile as she eyed him up and down.

"But it sounded like you were looking for someone to fight with . . . want to have a go?" She raised a fist connected to a toned arm.

"What? With . . . you mean . . ." Yamcha stammered, still barely recovering from his initial panic. "I . . . I couldn't fight a girl."

Rolling her eyes at that, the woman shrugged it off. "Oh well, your loss this time, buddy," she reached into a small compartment of her bag and pulled out a piece of paper. "The next time you're looking for a partner with some skill, call me up. You look like you might give me a decent work-out," she grinned with another once-over and handed him a business card before heading off with a small sway in her hips.

Yamcha was too confused to move as he watched the strange sporty woman walk away, and Puar took it upon himself to take the card from his hand and read it.

"Zisha Bergamot: Kickboxing champion and instructor."

* * *

><p>He had to turn over to prevent the blood from pooling in his throat and choking him. With a few wracking coughs, a red mass formed by his face, sticking to the side of his cheek. His hand shaking, he pulled the rest of his body upward, forcibly straining with the effort to raise the nearly thirty metric tons of it under the extreme gravity. Above him, he heard the whirring of the sentinel droids closing in.<p>

"_Program Delta completed_," the computer's hollow voice rang out, echoing in the circular chamber."_Initiating Program Epsilon_."

Another cough of blood. "C-cancel . . . cancel program," Vegeta rasped out before he was forced to curl into a heaving mass on the ground.

"_Program cancelled. Gravity simulation terminated. Normal gravity restored_."

The red warning lights dimmed and returned to soft white, and the immense pressure pulling his body downward immediately dissipated. Finally able to lift himself up to a sitting position, he took stock of his injuries. A gash in his right leg throbbed, charred on the edges to the point where it no longer bled, but it still smouldered. His left shoulder had taken the brunt of the most recent wave of damage, the skin all the way down to the edge of his upper arm burnt and flayed from both energy blasts and repeated falls at 450 times normal gravity. Several minor scrapes laced around his chest and face, but the worst of the damage lay in his right side. The wound had grown, aggravated by another energy blast and the prolonged stress of his training in general, opening wider to reveal two ribs jutting out slightly from the reddening gash. As the last of his coughing spasms emitted yet another glob of dark blood, he determined that one of his lungs must have been perforated.

Standing slowly, he struck out at the wall in frustration. _I've reached the limit_, he thought morosely as he wiped a stray trickle of blood from his brow. _What's the point of all this? I'm not getting any closer. At this rate, I'll never . . ._ Clenching his fist, he tore some of the reinforced metal in a crumpled mass. With a laboured breath that was almost a sigh, he turned to look out one of the portal windows, noting by the scarlet-tinged sky that it was soon to be evening. Leaning his arm on the wall to support his wearied frame, he opened the capsule door and waited as it descended with a small hiss.

The cool evening air brushed against his sweat-covered skin with a chill. Stepping out from the capsule, he saw the sky had turned a bright red on the horizon, tingeing the white buildings of the Western Capital with a rose rim. The last gold rays of the sun barely flickered above the skyline, and in its place were crimson clouds and a flame-brushed sky. Pausing as the door to Capsule 3 rose shut, he gazed into the red sky, his pain momentarily shoved to the back of his mind as his eyes took in the vibrant colours, distantly piercing into the image. A familiar ruby sky with towering white spires came to mind, and he could almost imagine space pods streaking past in flashes of blue-white, like rising comets—

"Miss Brief, Miss Brief!"

With a blink and a turn, the image was gone, and he could see the hoard of camera-flashing journalists dogging that blue-haired woman to her home through the bars and reinforced tinted glass of the main gate. As the reporters' questions increased in volume, Vegeta took the effort upon himself to head inside to avoid the bother.

At the gate, Bulma barely avoided running into a fourth microphone. "Yes, we've added a few more employees, but we haven't fired anyone."

The dark-haired man adjusted his glasses. "So you're not doing an overhaul of the company personnel structure?"

"No," Bulma stated simply, brushing his microphone from her face. The space from her car to her house had never seemed so far away.

"What about your ongoing research in the communications sector?" An older man held his notepad at the ready.

Bulma was losing her patience as another television camera barred her way from the gate's electronic keypad. "We're nearing the final stages, but I can't tell you any more than that."

"What about your relationship with Yamcha?" an all too familiar NewzPop shirt came into view, followed by several camera flashes. "No one has seen you two together in weeks."

"I won't comment on personal matters," Bulma had to repeat to the over-eager blog reporter.

"Does this mean things have fizzled?"

"No comment," Bulma grumbled as she stretched out an arm between several paparazzi to punch in the code for the gate.

"Is working at the company putting a strain on your relationship?"

The gates swung open and Bulma tried to force her way through the mobbing cameras into her front yard, dodging pencils, microphones, and questions. "No comment."

"What about the rumours about a new man in your life?"

"For the last time, stop asking personal questions," she began to fume, barely extricating herself from the swarm.

"Who's that?"

"Huh?" Bulma squeezed her way out of the mass and through the gates. Following the pointing fingers and camera flashes, she gasped and quickly slammed the button for the gate to close, bowling over most of the paparazzi.

Across the lawn from her, Vegeta was leaning against the headquarters building, smearing a red streak over the pale yellow walls. Holding his side, he appeared to have trouble maintaining his balance, taking each trembling step very slowly.

"Vegeta!" she shouted, rushing over to him. "What are you doing?"

With a pained grunt, he barely turned his head to her. "Well, I was trying to avoid all the loud questions, but I suppose now I've lost my chance," he bit out sarcastically.

Blowing a few curls from her eyes, she warily looked over her shoulder at the gaggle of reporters and was loathe to see a few of them had boosted each other up to continue filming over the top of the gate. With a resigned sigh, reached out to help him walk.

"I don't need your help," he snapped at her when she grabbed his left arm, the movement aggravating his shoulder injury. He pulled himself away and took a few more steps forward, streaking more blood from his side onto the wall when he stumbled.

"Listen to me, tough guy," Bulma put her hands on her hips. "I've got a mess of reporters out there filming your new paint job on my house. Either you let me help you get inside fast, or you can bleed out on candid camera."

He opened his mouth to speak, but only red-flecked coughs came out. Taking the opportunity, Bulma sidled herself under his left arm and eased him inside, ignoring his sputtered protests.

* * *

><p>AN: Yes, Zisha Bergamot's name is a pun on tea. Zisha is a type of yixing clay used for teapots, and bergamot is the citrus juice found in Early Grey tea. In the spirit of the DB franchise, I will attempt to pun on names as I go along, but only on the more important minor characters. I'll try not to add too many.<p>

Also, I hope I make this clear: I am somewhat sympathetic to Yamcha. Hell, I'm sympathetic to pretty much every DBZ character—except maybe Cui or the saibamen. They don't really get enough screen time for proper development, though—oops, I'm even being sympathetic to them now.

Anyway, how's the story going? Thoughts?


	3. Contact

CHAPTER THREE: Contact

Disclaimer: I own none of this franchise.

AN: Trying to get some of the clichés out of the way in this chapter—bear with me. We'll get to aliens and spaceships and whatnot soon enough.

* * *

><p>"Wait here, and don't you dare move," Bulma gave a long glare behind her as she headed to the door. "I'll get the first aid kit—and a change of clothes," she looked dismayingly at her designer blazer that was now slightly sticky from helping the wounded Saiyan inside.<p>

Vegeta made only a non-committal grunt as he eased himself down on the bed and waited for the door to breeze shut. Pressing his hand to his side once it had clicked closed, he tried to focus on something other than the slow burning of his muscles and the lancing jabs of pain coming from his injuries. He gazed at the room the Briefs had given him, and that he had barely used, trailing his eyes from the plush blue carpet to the far wall. Mounted into the white walls at the far end were some bookshelves with a few innocuous titles scattered among some relatively simple decorative accent pieces. Beneath that was an end table with a small lamp shedding light on a large cushioned living chair. The rest of the room was lit by the dying sunlight through the window behind him.

As the minutes rolled by, Vegeta put an impatient hand on the desk beside his bed to raise himself up, holding his side again to prevent more blood loss. With an irritated growl, he staggered over to his left toward the bathroom, gripping the edge of the bed, and then the neighbouring wall, until he heard the door open.

"What did I tell you?" Bulma snapped at him, carrying a small white box with a red cross on it.

"You took too long," he barked back peevishly.

"Well excu—se me," she crossed the room and dumped the contents of the first aid kit on the desk by the bed. "But I had to get _someone's_ nasty blood off my blazer. That stuff's dry-clean only, you know."

Vegeta remained where he was, catching his breath on the wall by the bathroom door. "It's your own damn fault. I didn't ask for your help," he reminded her.

Frowning at his churlish tone, Bulma folded her arms. "I'm not going anywhere until I stop you from bleeding all over my house."

"I can handle it on my own," he followed suit and crossed his arms, forgetting momentarily about his injured side and shoulder. He winced slightly and put his hand back over his wound.

Flicking an annoyed hand through her curls, Bulma tried a new approach to the situation. "Look, the sooner you let me see your injuries, the sooner I'll be out of here."

He stayed where he was, glowering at her.

"Well?" she frowned at him. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

After a long moment appraising his situation and his condition, Vegeta let out a truculent snort. "Fine," he spat, forcing himself from the wall and trying to take as few steps as possible to the bed.

Bulma set herself down on the bed carefully so as not to jostle the mattress and cause further discomfort. Pulling out the antiseptic and some cotton, she waited expectantly for him to remove his hand from his injured side. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"I'm waiting for you to move your hand," her lips drew a tight line.

He glared back at her. "I'm waiting for you get a towel."

"Huh?" Bulma blinked at him.

He rolled his eyes at her. "Didn't you just say not to bleed everywhere?"

"You're still bleeding that much?"

He gave her a pointed look. "Why else would I still be holding my side?"

Grumbling, Bulma sifted through the overturned contents of the kit to pull out some small blue cloths. Folding one up, she placed it near the bottom of his covered wound. "All right, let's see it," she demanded expectantly.

When he removed his hand Bulma immediately raised the cloth to cover the tear in his side. The cloth quickly turned a dark purple that matched the swelling bruise around the exterior of the wound. Switching to the next cloth after the first was saturated, she grew uneasy as she felt the second grow almost as damp as the first under her hand. "That can't be good," she muttered as she maintained pressure over it.

"I've told you before, it doesn't matter to me," he was staring at the wall.

"Yeah, yeah" she brushed it off. "I've heard your tough guy speech already."

He clenched his jaw shut and remained quiet as she finally removed the soaked cloth and began to rub the antiseptic over the injury. She gingerly cleaned the wound, examining the gash that revealed his fractured ribs, jutting out slightly through the tear in his flesh. With a tight bandage, she plastered over the opening and wrapped his upper abdomen in medical tape. Moving on to his leg and his shoulder, she noted that he remained stonily silent the entire time she prodded his injuries.

"Not much of a conversationalist, huh?" she asked as she finished cleaning his shoulder.

"Not when there's nothing to say, no," he grunted tersely.

She blew a lock of hair from her eyes crossly. "I expected a little gratitude at least."

"I don't owe you anything," he frowned at her as she leaned across his chest to reach for a bandage on the desk. "I didn't ask for this."

"Look," she started as she plastered a thick bandage on the injury, "you're eating our food, using our equipment, and breaking it—and yourself—to pieces on a weekly basis. You're going to follow our rules while you're in this house. One of our rules is that we say 'thank you' when someone helps us out."

"I never asked to stay in this house either," his dark gaze fell on her.

"Well, you got it whether you asked or not," she reached over again to grab the antiseptic and some cotton balls. Dabbing some of the sharp smelling liquid onto the cotton she reached up toward his face. "So you might as well deal with it."

He evaded her hand in a quick motion and a scowl. "What are you doing?"

"You've got some cuts on your face," she explained, a little puzzled by his reaction. "I'm trying to clean them."

"Don't bother," he batted her wrist down.

"Touchy, aren't we?" she quirked a brow at him. "Look, you lunkhead. You'll end up with a hair full of this stuff if you don't let me use it properly," she held the bottle up over his head menacingly.

Glancing between her blue eyes and the hovering bottle of antiseptic, Vegeta weighed his options. "This is the last thing you have to do here?"

"That's right," she answered. "Then this bottle and I are out of your hair."

He put his hands down and turned toward her. "Make it quick."

The second her hands touched his face, she felt his jaw line tense. Dabbing gently against the scrape above his left eye, she followed the sweep of his dark brow upward to several more cuts on his forehead. As she worked, she saw that not all the scars and lines were recent, some of them faded deep below the surface of his skin. As her fingers worked on cleaning his wounds, she felt like her hands were tracing along etches in stone, his face was tensed so tightly. "All right," she finished dabbing at a cut on his cheek. "Last one."

"Good. Now get out of my face, woman."

"Well, someone's awfully nervous," she gave him a teasing smirk as she put the cap back on the antiseptic bottle. "What's the matter? You think women are so scary?"

"Hardly," he turned his face out of her reach. "I simply think they're of little use and a great deal of nuisance."

"Oh come off it," she looked sidelong at him. "I just helped your sorry butt. That's pretty useful."

"And you've been a nuisance about it," he glared from the corner of his eye.

Bulma twisted her mouth into a pout. "Well, it's not like _you're_ much use around here," she grumbled, standing up to stuff the first aid supplies back in the kit.

Vegeta let out quick breath of air, derision in his scowl.

"I mean, it's not like you earn your keep around here, oh no . . ." Bulma continued, collecting the bandages and shoving them forcefully into the box.

"Last I remember, the invitation to stay here didn't come with a price tag."

"An oversight on my part, clearly," she snapped the kit closed. She whirled around, blue curls flying over her shoulders. "Just make sure you don't do any more damage around here—to the gravity machine or to yourself," she stood in front of him in her best attempt to look threatening. "I'm already going to be up to my ears in tabloid headlines because of today. Just do everyone a big favour and stay," she tried to push his good shoulder down toward the mattress, "in . . . bed!" she kept shoving with each word.

His form remained solidly upright. "What _are_ you doing, woman?" His face wavered between puzzled and amused.

"You're going to stay in bed until you're healed this time," she pushed at the stationary shoulder. "I mean it!"

"Is that a fact?" his shoulder had yet to budge, and his expression had settled on an amused smirk at her efforts.

"Just do it!" she snapped, getting in his face as she pushed again.

His grin had grown to show some teeth, and Bulma was close enough to see how sharp they were. "I don't take orders," he responded in a low tone.

"Now you listen here," she shoved her nose in front of his, noting the slight twitch of discomfort he made at the proximity and using it to her advantage. "You're in no condition to be pulling your normal stunts. So just shut up, lie down and—"

"Who wants some chicken pot pie?" a bubbly voice entered the room.

Vegeta was barely able to blink past the blue eyes and hair in his face to see the rounded derriere of Mrs Briefs sliding the door open, her arms busied with a tray of food. Turning around, she beamed at the two of them before her perpetually squinted eyes widened a little. "Oh, am I interrupting something?"

Bulma stood up quickly, removing herself from Vegeta's personal space. "No, Mom, I was just about to leave," she picked up the kit again and headed toward the door. She gave a pointed look back at the injured Saiyan. "And he was just about to take my advice and stay in bed for a while."

Vegeta narrowed his eyes angrily.

"Oh, well it's a good thing I brought his dinner up then!" the blonde remained oblivious to the tense looks the others were exchanging. She set the tray on the desk beside the bed with a deep bend at her waist, smiling back at the man on the bed from over her shoulder as the hem of her pink dress rose. "Bon appétit!" she invited.

Vegeta only grunted an affirmation, trying to look anywhere but at the woman's backside presented conspicuously in front of him.

"Eat up so you can regain your strength," the older woman encouraged, swishing her way out the door with her daughter, who had developed a slight blush at her mother's flirtatious antics.

The door slid shut behind them and Bulma gave an exasperated look at the blonde. "Mom, is it really necessary to do all that?"

"Do what, dear?" Pansy Brief tilted her head in question.

"You . . . with your . . . the way you . . . oh, never mind," the genius was at a flustered loss.

"I just thought he could use some nourishment," Mrs. Brief put a hand to her face. "I mean, he works so hard! It's no wonder he has such an appetite."

"Mom, he's an alien," Bulma gave a long look at her mother. "He'd have an appetite regardless. Besides, you didn't have to bring it to him like his personal chef. I've told you we have ro—"

"Yes, yes, robots for that sort of thing. I know, honey," her mother waved the thought aside as the two of them started to walk down the stairs to the living quarters. "But you know what?"

"What, Mom?" Bulma gave a long breath, waiting for whatever vacuous yet well-intended comment would come next.

"I'm sure those robots are perfectly capable of bringing up a first aid kit too," Mrs. Briefs winked.

* * *

><p>The constant tapping of the pads created a monotonous percussive lull as Yamcha blocked another kick. The practice combat was nearly finished as the advanced class went into its final bout of jab and hook patterns, interrupted periodically by knees and axe kicks. Yamcha had to restrain a yawn as the fighter in front of him gave a hard right to the padded mitts he held. His toughened muscles barely felt the impact.<p>

_I hate being the defensive_, Yamcha groaned inwardly. _At least when I'm attacking it clears my head_. He gave a half-hearted block to a raised knee. Another jab and Yamcha barely flicked his wrist to get the practice pad there in time. While the fighter in front of him continued to sweat with exertion, Yamcha had trouble distracting his tangential thoughts.

"_You're looking better than ever, Bulma. I missed you a lot_."

She had stood in front of him when he had come back, her blue eyes shining at him. Her hair had been straight then and her feelings straightforward. He had been dripping wet from his fall in the Capsule Corp. garden pond, but she was looking at him like he had returned a conquering hero. As he held Puar close to him, his blue fur matting up against his wet face, he knew he would never forget that expression in Bulma's eyes, and, despite his graceless entry back into the realm of the living, he would never forget how that gaze made him feel stronger than ever and weak in the knees all at the same time.

_Haven't really seen that look since then_, Yamcha's face darkened. He blocked another kick to the gut with an unconscious efficiency.

"_You goof! You're such a nut_."

She had said it affectionately, but it had seemed no different than the way she normally talked to Krillin or Gohan. _Maybe I'm reading too much into this_, Yamcha reflected, matching pace with the flurry of frustrated punches the fighter in front of him threw out of desperation. He easily caught them in the soft mitts.

"_Bulma! Hey, I hope you have a healthy baby!_"

_I'm still not really sure what Goku was talking about_, Yamcha frowned. _I mean, sure_, he leaned to his right to block the incoming kick from his partner, _I've always wanted to get married, but . . ._ he hesitated, nearly letting a right jab slip past his defences. With a slight sidestep and a dodge, his mitts were back in position. Sighing, he blocked the next onslaught of now optimistic punches. _I just don't know if I'm ready for kids yet—I guess I'm more of a romantic than I thought. I kind of wanted to enjoy just being married._

"_I don't even know if she'd say yes. It's been over ten years—you'd think we were _already_ married by now!_"

His own words came back to him. _Would she?_ he thought back to his last outing with Bulma. A sunny afternoon, light conversation over two espressos, the curve of her pale neck emerging from her collared blouse—they had smiled, talked, and laughed, but it had been over within a matter of minutes as she rushed back to the corporate headquarters, and he had been left alone. He remembered the kiss she gave him as she left: soft and sweet, but so very brief. Her blue eyes had glistened fondness at him, a caring and a warmth that had developed over the years—not, he recalled, the same longing he had seen there before.

Nor had there been that spark behind those azure pools that made them seem to burn and bore into him—_Of course, that's mostly when she's mad at me_, he smirked sardonically._ I haven't seen that look since Krillin brought Maron to Kame House._ Two more kicks, and a left hook, all easily blocked. _I probably could have handled that situation a little better_, Yamcha mused, thinking back to Maron's flirtatious positioning, and sidling up to him. _But it's not my fault—I don't ask for girls to come up to me. It just sort of happens . . ._

"Good form, Yamcha," a smooth voice came from over his right shoulder, and Yamcha blushed at the tone. Zisha Bergamot walked around the two fighters, sweeping her gaze over the rest of her class in appraisal. Her hair, swept up in a tight ponytail, looked almost purple in the bright lights of the gym. Putting her hands on her hips as she scanned over the other groups of students sparring, her brown eyes settled on Yamcha's opponent. "Ken, try to put your hips into your punches," she instructed. "You'll get more power that way. Keep up the good work," she breezed past, her high ponytail bouncing behind her slim form.

"All right class! That's it for today," she called out after a few more minutes. "Hopefully you all got a chance to build up your resistance by defending with the mitts and increase your offensive speed. We'll meet up next Thursday night—be ready to sweat!"

Some groans sprang up from around a few of the students at the last part, and Zisha could not help but give a little giggle. "No pain, no gain, guys!"

Yamcha took off his right mitt and gave a polite handshake to his current sparring partner Ken, a large man with a shock of deep auburn hair. "Good match," the scarred fighter smiled at him.

Ken gave a wry smile. "Tch. Hardly, but I'll get you next time," he gripped Yamcha's hand tightly. "Bet on it."

Yamcha put a hand behind his head a little sheepishly as the two shook before heading off to pack their duffels and hit the showers.

"Yamcha," that low alto called him to a halt.

He turned around to see Zisha with her arms folded. Her brow was furrowed a little and he began to get nervous when she came closer to him.

"Did I . . . uh, do something wrong?" Yamcha took a step backward.

"You're not doing your best, I'll tell you that," the kickboxing instructor responded tersely.

"But I—I made sure he didn't land a single punch," he defended meekly.

"I know—and you still weren't at your best," her hands moved to her hips as she stood in front of the scarred fighter. "This is my most advanced class, and it's too easy for you."

"Oh," understanding dawned on Yamcha's face.

"And Ken's no slouch," Zisha continued. "I made sure to match you up with my strongest student, and he still wasn't good enough."

"Well," the blush had yet to leave Yamcha's face, "I have had quite a bit of martial arts training . . ."

"I see that. That's why I think maybe you won't get as much out of this class as I originally promised. I'm sorry about that."

"Nah, don't sweat it," Yamcha smiled. "I kind of knew what I was getting into already."

"I still feel bad for all my big talk—and the deposit's non-refundable for these night classes. What do you say I give you," she tapped a finger on his chest, "some private training to make up for it?"

Yamcha glanced nearly cross-eyed at where she was touching his skin, feeling a spreading warmth from the spot that had nothing to do with any kickboxing workout. Moving his eyes from her finger to her trim arm, over the swell of her shoulder and up the curve of her slender neck, they found their way to a pair of warm cinnamon pools, intensely staring back at him. Something sparked, and he felt weak in the knees.

"Oh those lights," Zisha broke the gaze, looking up at the flickering fluorescent lamps overhead. "I've told them they need to replace them more often, but they never listen. Anyway," she turned back at him. "What do you think about a few private sessions so you can get your money's worth? I'm sure it'll be a tougher workout for you than the regular classes."

"I uh . . ." Yamcha struggled, trying to comprehend what had just happened to his knees. "I don't think . . ." he saw her shift her weight to one side of her hips, and his mouth went dry again. "I'm not sure that's a good idea," he finally settled himself.

Zisha shrugged. "Suit yourself then," she turned to go pack up her own bag. "See you next class."

"Yeah . . . see you," Yamcha watched her go before packing up his bag.

* * *

><p>The sun rose slowly over the Western capital, diffusing through the low layer of chilled autumn mist that hung over ground. The tall cylindrical buildings spread shadows from their backlit position, the white surfaces gleaming at the edges as the light grew around them. The number of cars flying down the normally busy streets was diminished into a small whizzing hush, and the pigeons and gulls that were accustomed to filling the skies with their calls were sleepily silent.<p>

Mrs. Brief filled the silence with her own warbling tune, practically dancing from flower to flower with her watering can. With a sweep of her arm, she drizzled her prized marigolds, breathing in the crisp morning air. "It's so peaceful at this time of day," she remarked to herself, lowering her face into a pot of bright red flowers that bloomed in bursts. "I just love the smell of flowers in the morning," she giggled and sprinkled them with her watering can until it went dry.

With almost a skip in her step, Pansy Briefs went back inside the house, entering the kitchen. Setting her can down by the sink, she ran the tap to fill it back up until she heard a noise from the living room. "Who's up at this hour?" she pondered, and, with a twist, she shut off the tap and headed into the next room.

"Oh my," she remarked, her eyes widening to reveal the deep blue her daughter had inherited. At the foot of the stairs, Vegeta straightened himself up, releasing the railing he had been using for support. He levelled his gaze at the perky blonde warily.

"You're up early," she commented with airy cheer. "Are you feeling better?"

The crease in his brows deepened. "No," he grunted irritably.

Mrs. Brief giggled. "What dedication! Up bright and early to continue training, no matter what!" She turned back toward the kitchen and beckoned him to follow. "You must be starving! Can't get to work on an empty stomach," she bubbled.

Half expecting chastisement for being out of bed before he was healed, Vegeta blinked in surprise at her praise. He hesitated a moment at her gesture, but his stomach decided for him with a low rumble, and he trailed behind her sauntering hips into the kitchen.

"Now, what would you like? Pancakes?" she questioned as she pulled out a spatula. "Waffles? Or how about some French toast?"

"All of them," Vegeta took a seat at the kitchen table.

"Such an appetite!" Mrs. Brief cooed as she assembled all the pots and pans together. Butter sizzled on the pans and her hands flew from cracking eggs, to whisking batter, to flipping flapjacks with a surprising amount of speed. As she poured a batch of batter onto the waffle iron, she turned to her houseguest to ask if he would like some eggs and bacon in addition to the carbohydrates, but stopped at the sight in front of her.

Scratch, the family cat, had climbed up on the table, hoping for some table scraps. As the creature waited, he began to clean his paws, and would have appeared completely disinterested in the food being prepared were it not for his eagerly swishing tail. Across from the feline, Vegeta's eyes were practically burning intensity as they followed the movements of the cat's agitated appendage, left, then right. Rather than appearing irritated with the animal's proximity to him, the look in his eye almost seemed jealous. Left, then right.

Scratch let out a mew when he saw Mrs. Brief looking.

"Well, I guess that's two sides of bacon I'll be frying up," Mrs. Brief gave an indulgent smile at the two of them. "Is that all right with you, Vegeta?"

"Hn?" he snapped his eyes away from the cat's tail.

"Would you like some bacon?"

"Fine," he went back to his staring, leaning into his chair, draping one arm over the back while the other rested on the table. He shifted his lower back uncomfortably as he sat.

Within minutes the table was filled with a breakfast spread, and Mrs. Brief sat down with her cup of rose mint tea, watching her two diners tuck in.

"More for you, kitty?" she asked when Scratch began to rub up against her legs. She picked up a piece of bacon from the central plate and set it down on the floor. Scratch batted it around a little, chasing it across the tile floor a bit before he finally pounced and began to take small, tearing bites out of it. Mrs. Brief gave a small titter. "You can take the cat out of the alley, but you can't take alley out of the cat," she beamed at her guest.

Vegeta took another bite of his second helping of waffles.

Pansy Brief continued, oblivious. "It seems like only yesterday we found him—all cold and alone . . ." she put a hand to her cheek wistfully.

Vegeta cleared his plate and moved on to the French toast.

"When we brought him into our home, he just didn't know what to do! He would always avoid everyone in the house . . . until he wanted something, that is," Pansy took another sip of tea.

The Saiyan added some bacon to his plate.

"Oh, then he would just meow and howl and make _such_ a ruckus until someone gave him something to eat . . ."

With a disinterested grunt, Vegeta swallowed the remaining bits of his French toast.

"But he came around eventually," Mrs. Brief kept smiling, stirring the tea in her delicate china cup. "Of course, sometimes he's still a little rough around the edges," she glanced back down at the feline in question, which was now shredding the bacon with his teeth. "But he's much better around people now—just goes to show you what a little generosity and kindness can do."

Vegeta began work on a stack of pancakes, vaguely aware that the woman was babbling in his direction.

"—care what Bulma says, you don't have to pay us back in any way," he caught the end of her sentence. He frowned at her, puzzled as to what she was on about.

Seeing his fork stop halfway up to his mouth and his expression, Mrs. Brief elaborated. "I heard what she said to you on my way up to the room. Honestly, when Bulma's in a tizzy, her voice can carry out to the garden."

Stuffing another bite of pancake into his mouth, Vegeta merely nodded in agreement.

"I just want you to know that you're not required to earn your keep around here," Mrs. Brief took another sip of tea. "We don't mind—we're used to taking in strays," she gave another glance at Scratch with affection.

Slowing his chewing, Vegeta's look darkened at the last word.

"So don't you worry yourself about it," Mrs. Brief went on amiably waving her hand as if to dismiss any protests. "We'll take good care of you, no questions ask—oh, where are you going, Vegeta?"

Vegeta had pushed his plate away from him and stood up, wordlessly stalking out of the kitchen, a grim look on his face.

"Good luck with your training," Mrs. Brief called after him. Clearing the plates from the table, she set one down in front of the cat, petting his ears as the small creature began to lick up the leftovers. With a gaze out the window to the Capsule 3 space ship, she sighed fondly. "He works _so_ hard."

* * *

><p>The wind blew through the sundrenched trees of Mount Paozu, rustling the leaves and the tall blades of grass that rose up through the foothills. Whistling around the rock formations and over the pounding waterfalls, it rushed down to a quiet valley, where a round little house sat. Not too far away, the wind billowed a long white cape that hovered a few feet off the ground.<p>

Piccolo remained stationary, floating in deep meditation as the wind breezed past his face. Allowing his senses to fan out around him, he felt the stirrings of the creatures of the forest, living together in their delicate balance. A doe drank from a nearby stream with her fawn, tranquil, but cautious, as she held herself ready to rush her offspring away from any danger. A lizard basked on a dark rock, absorbing the little heat that would be available for him that day from the autumn sun. Birds flitted about overhead, scouring the ground for something edible while warily flying through the trees to avoid the sharp eyes of the hawk that circled overhead.

The tall Namek took a deep breath, absorbing the calm sense of singular purpose that the natural atmosphere provided him. As he began to probe his senses farther into the forest, however, he came upon a faint flicker of something out of place. Furrowing his brow with his senses piqued, he extended his consciousness to identify the anomaly, picking up waves of dark determination—

"Hiya, Piccolo!"

The break in concentration made a snapping sound in his mind like the crack of a whip, his consciousness recoiling back inward. With a long exhale, he turned to face the intruder.

"Goku," he addressed him in a flat tone.

"Oh, sorry," Goku registered the irritability in Piccolo's voice as he stood next to him. "Are you meditating?"

The green man gave him a long look. "Not anymore. What is it?"

"Oh, well, I figured since we've just finished breakfast and Chichi's got Gohan 'til noon we might get a few hours of training in," Goku's eyes beamed from under his dishevelled-looking hair. "What do you say?"

"Hn," Piccolo uncupped his hands and set them on his knees. "Your wife is determined to limit Gohan's training time as much as possible, isn't she?"

"Aww, it's not so bad," Goku's optimism was unflappable. "We at least get him in the afternoons. Besides, he's a fast learner—he'll improve in half the time anyway."

"Gohan's good," Piccolo acquiesced, "but it's going to take more time to get him up to his true potential. Setbacks like these aren't helping."

"Aww, come on, Piccolo," Goku brushed his concern aside. "We've still got a little over two years left. It's not like he'll be fighting alone—we're all in this together."

The Namekian gave him a hard look. "Are you so sure about that?"

"Well, yeah," Goku grinned. "I mean, when those androids come, we'll all be fighting alongside each other: you, me, Gohan, Krillin, Tien, Yamcha, Vege—"

"Are you so sure we'll all be fighting on the same side?" Piccolo interrupted the last name in the list.

"Huh? You mean Vegeta?" Goku asked. "He seemed pretty eager to fight them when we last saw him."

"But you're next on his list," Piccolo pointed out.

"Well, I'm sure all that stuff will work itself out in three years, especially while he's at Capsule Corp. with Bulma."

A few birds flew up from the woods over to their right, and Piccolo's ear twitched. He glanced over in that direction, focusing his senses.

"Something wrong?" Goku asked after a minute or so.

Piccolo frowned, but turned back to him. "I can't sense anything now. I thought . . ." he tried to focus on what he had felt before, "for a minute . . ." he snapped his eyes back on Goku. "It's gone. I don't know what it was."

"Probably just a dinosaur or something," Goku shrugged. "Anyway, I have a good feeling about Vegeta. I think he'll be a good ally for this fight."

Piccolo fell to brooding again. With a long exhale, he contemplated the potential outcomes of the impending battle. "Gohan is strong," he reiterated, "and we'll all have improved by the time the androids arrive . . . but unless something drastic is done, I'm not so sure we can defeat what's coming."

Goku took a seat on the green grass, scattering some clover as he plopped down. "Huh," he leaned back, taking a look at the sky. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it," Piccolo clenched his fist. "That boy Trunks is—will be a Super Saiyan, the same as you are. Even he couldn't defeat the androids. What's to stop that future from happening again if that's the highest power level we've got?"

Gazing up a passing cloud, Goku took a deep breath of the clear mountain air. "That won't happen," he smiled confidently.

His frown deepening, the Namekian turned his head to the man, grave. "And why's that?"

Focusing his attention back on his old rival, Goku's smile never faded. "Well, you remember what Trunks said. He can't beat them because it's two against one. With all of us fighting together, it should be no problem."

"Goku," Piccolo's volume increased, "those androids killed all of us in the future. I don't know if we were fighting together or not, but if two of them are strong enough to take us all out, I don't think this is something we can take so lightly."

"Relax, Piccolo," Goku sat up, bending his elbows over his crossed legs conversationally. "The future versions of us didn't have what we—_won't_ have what we had—uh, what we _have_ now . . . uh," Goku blinked to try to get himself on track, "we have a warning in advance."

Piccolo remained unaffected. "A warning that will be wasted if our forces don't end up strong enough to meet them."

"You worry too much," Goku continued. "We'll train up for it. Besides, it's not like we'll only have a Super Saiyan as our strongest defence."

"No?" Piccolo queried. "What have we got that's more powerful than a Super Saiyan?"

Goku's grin gleamed in the sunlight. "_Two_ Super Saiyans."

With a deep breath, Piccolo regarded him coolly. "You really think he can do it—you think Vegeta can become a Super Saiyan." It was not a question.

"Sure," Goku shrugged. "I mean, he trains non-stop—and he's using way more gravity than I ever did."

"And nothing's happened," Piccolo pointed out. "Are you sure it's something he can do? He's been training for months now. You only trained for a few days."

"Well, you're right—it's not just something a few push-ups can do," Goku put a hand to his chin, trying to remember. "When I got to Namek, I wasn't anywhere near the transformation."

"So what makes you think he can do it?" Piccolo folded his arms, still sceptical.

As he stared down into the grass that gently blew in the wind, Goku recalled the green skies on that planet so far away—that tranquil planet of lush, verdant beauty that had become an unpopulated wasteland by the time he had arrived. "It's strange," he started pensively, "it's not about the training, or the battle, or any of that," he looked up at Piccolo. "It's . . . it's just a feeling."

Piccolo remained quiet, waiting for him to continue.

"I . . . when I was facing Frieza . . . when I made the transformation, I wasn't thinking about any of that. It was like . . ." he had trouble forming the thought into words. Several birds flew overhead as the seconds passed. "There was a feeling . . . way deep down. It was so far down, I didn't know if I could come back up again once I got there."

"You mean a rage," Piccolo surmised. "Like Gohan. When he attacked Radditz—"

"No, it's not just that," Goku shook his head. "It's something else, something more than that. I-I'm not sure how to explain it—but I am sure that Vegeta can become a Super Saiyan."

"Goku, you can't even explain the transformation to me," Piccolo gave a sigh. "How do you expect Vegeta to figure out how it's done if you don't even know?"

"It's not about knowing," Goku held his gaze. "It's a feeling—and I think Vegeta can do it."

Piccolo clenched his jaw. "Goku, Vegeta doesn't feel the sa—"

"It's the same," Goku interrupted. "It's exactly the same feeling I sensed when he talked to me."

"When he . . ." Piccolo tried to ponder out what the man beside him meant. "When he was dying?"

Goku shook his head again. "No, afterward. When I was fighting, he came to me."

Piccolo raised a brow at that. "After he died," came the disbelieving response.

"It sounds crazy," Goku smiled, "but I know it was the same. I . . . I didn't know what it was when he spoke to me, but it was the same . . . when you . . . and Krillin . . ."

Piccolo pinched the bridge of his nose. "Goku," he broke in, not eager to go back to memories of that time. With a sigh, he diverted the other fighter's attention. "You can't make a prediction like that on a feeling."

Coming out of his introspection, Goku blinked with a smile. "Well, I guess you're right. But I still think Vegeta's going to be a big help in this next fight—just like the last one."

"You do remember that he wants to kill you, right?" Piccolo's pessimism stepped in again. "And that he doesn't really care about the people on this planet."

Goku's smile never left his face. "I remember . . . and I remember someone else not so long ago I could have said that same thing about."

Lowering his legs from his meditative position, Piccolo's serious expression never wavered. "Don't think all those feelings have changed that much," he gave Goku a fanged grin.

The Earth-bred Saiyan put his fist on his hips. "That's what makes sparring with you so interesting. I never know what's coming next. So what do you say to another match?"

Piccolo took stock of where the sun was in the sky and sent out a probing sweep of his energy, searching the area for a suitable training ground. After a few seconds, he turned to his old nemesis and smiled.

"I'll meet you at the waterfall."

* * *

><p>"Oh, no, don't tell me those droids failed again," Dr. Brief gave a dismayed sigh, his cigarette hanging limply from his mouth. "I've upgraded them twice already!"<p>

"The machines are fine," Vegeta stormed through the door of the lab, fists clenched. From the look of it, he had been pounding out his frustrations, despite his injuries, all day to no avail.

"Oh," the doctor's expression cleared with a blink. "Well then . . . hello," he settled on an amiable tone.

"I'm not here for pleasantries," the brash Saiyan folded his arms crossly as the door slid shut behind him.

Petting Scratch, who had returned to his shoulder after his bacon breakfast, Dr. Brief swivelled in his lab chair to face the penetrating gaze of his difficult houseguest. "What can I do for you, then?" he tried to keep his tone calm under that sharp scrutiny.

"The question is," Vegeta ground out, "what is it you want from me?" If anything, the line between the younger man's brows deepened.

The cigarette nearly fell from the old doctor's lip. "Wh-what on earth? I never asked for anything from you."

A distrusting snarl came from the Saiyan's throat. "Then why have you agreed to build all these things?" His muscles were becoming increasingly tense, and he had taken a step forward in his impatience.

Considering the man before him, Dr. Brief adjusted his glasses to assess the situation better. Vegeta was angry, certainly, but that was no news to anyone. Observing him with the eye of a scientist on field research, the older man noted the bristling hair from the back of the Saiyan's neck, the tightly set jaw, and finally the dark eyes that seemed to have a veil of distrust covering a deep pool of foreign incomprehension. "You mean other than the fact that you're a terrifying alien capable of destroying this city in the blink of an eye?" the doctor took his time by deflecting the question with the small joke before he settled on an answer. "Because I'm curious."

Those dark eyes narrowed. "Curious," the flat tone only had the barest hint of an upward, questioning inflection.

Still observing the guarded wariness of Vegeta's body language, Dr. Brief settled on telling him the truth. "It's all for the progress of science, my boy," he smiled affably.

This was apparently not the answer the Saiyan was expecting. The veil over his black eyes seemed to fade and the confusion deepened. "Science," he repeated hesitantly—disbelievingly.

"Not like lab rats or anything of that sort," Dr. Brief pre-emptively dismissed any wrong impressions. "But your training equipment. Why, I haven't been pushed this hard since I started out tampering with the molecular physics for the DynoCaps," the older man smiled fondly at the memories.

"Then you are not expecting me to give payment for the use of your home and equipment," Vegeta spoke slowly, still not quite trusting what he was hearing.

"Heavens no!" Dr. Brief reclined in his ergonomic chair. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Vegeta shifted his shoulders somewhat uncomfortably. "Then you do not require me to . . . show gratitude," the last word had difficulty making it past his lips.

"Well, no . . . though it would be nice if you . . ." Dr. Brief phrased his request carefully, "well, treated things a little more gently."

"I haven't broken anything in the last week," Vegeta insisted, slamming his hand on the workstation table indignantly.

Dr. Brief made a small 'eep' sound and grasped his chest at the impact. "I was talking about me," he had to catch his breath. "Just a little more," his voice was timid, "respect for an old—"

"So there is a price?" Vegeta held himself upright, looking down at the elder man with a cold intent. "I will not be in your debt, old man!" he spat at him.

"Debt? Who said anything about a debt?" the doctor tried to diffuse the situation; he could see the tendrils of blue energy emanating from the simmering alien, his frustration, confusion, and indignation rising out of him in waves. Before Vegeta could fry the ceiling of the lab, he stammered out, "I-if anything, I should be paying you!"

The aura around Vegeta dissipated immediately with a confused blink. "Come again?"

"I should be paying you," Dr. Brief repeated. "Your modifications to the droids I built and the lining of the gravity chamber will be invaluable to my company . . . once we've applied them to the private sector, that is. I'd been meaning to ask you about it."

The Saiyan's arms crossed again. "Explain," he demanded.

"What we've been working on here," Dr. Brief ignored the attitude, "I've been modifying for Bulma to bring to the company headquarters. So, in essence, your demands for better training equipment have been a boon to our research and development from the start—not to mention you're the toughest durability test a machine can go through."

"That was not my intention," Vegeta scoffed.

"Intention or not, you've become one of my top engineers without even trying," Dr. Brief smiled. "So I wanted to ask you . . . what do you think would be a good starting salary?"

* * *

><p>Bulma pressed her ear to the door, desperately trying to understand what her father was talking about through the metal. <em>I hate being out of the loop<em>, she moaned inwardly, barely catching snippets of what she knew was sure to be valuable technical information.

"—this for the molecular—"

The rest of the sentence tapered off and was followed by a grunt that could only have come from her father's most demanding client. Bulma took off her right earring to ease her ear tighter against the door. The buzzing of the fluorescent light above her made it difficult to distinguish the conversation on the other side.

"—and here, on this line—"

Another grunt, and a small scratching sound.

"—plus a stipend for each—"

A few more scratching sounds arose as Bulma lost track of what her father was going on about on the other side of the door. _Stipend?_ she pondered. The mumbling on the other end became somewhat indistinct as she heard her father's voice drift over to the far end of the room before returning after some shuffling sounds.

"—the card here, both names—"

"—don't have—"

_What in the—?_ Bulma furrowed her brows as she tried to listen more closely, frustrated by how muffled the barrier made their voices. Straining her hearing further, she nearly flattened herself against the cold metal of the door, trying to get closer to the conversation.

"—should be a matter of weeks—"

There were footsteps coming toward her location, and, having learnt from past mistakes, Bulma jumped away from the door just seconds before it slid open. Catching her breath, she leaned against the wall, trying to look nonchalant as Vegeta stepped out of the lab. She was surprised to see the expression Vegeta levelled at her.

_Like the cat that swallowed the canary_, Bulma puzzled as Vegeta brushed past her with a small, smug grin. He was practically sauntering his way down the hall. At the sight of her confused face, his grin spread further, and he gave a slight chuckle as he exited the lab quarters.

Blinking in surprise after him, Bulma turned to her father with questioning eyes. "What's got him so happy? Did you come up with something new for him to train with?"

Turning from his seat, Dr. Brief shuffled a filing folder full of paperwork. "Oh, you're back from work already? No dear, I haven't given him any new training equipment." He stroked the fur of the black cat on his shoulder.

Suspicious, Bulma examined the lab. It seemed clean enough, and nothing appeared to be different from the last time she had seen it. Several filing cabinets stood with a few documents stacked on top, weighed down by a calibrator or two. The workstation table was relatively clear, aside from the halogen lamp and the stray soldering iron, and the there did not appear to be any new machines or blueprints present. "What did you give him then?" she asked her father, confused. "I don't think I've ever seen him that happy."

"Oh, just peace of mind, dear," Dr. Brief smiled at his daughter as she looked at him sceptically. "Oh, and 140,000 a year."

Bulma nearly facevaulted.

* * *

><p>Natalie took another sip of her triple caramel mocha, hardly registering the sugary sweetness as she sifted through her files of photographs. Hunched over her laptop, her fingers clicked and slid across the touchpad, skimming to the end of the digital folder's contents.<p>

"I know I have it somewhere," she muttered, setting her mocha down on a stack of overdue utility bills. Rotating her wrist from its developing carpal tunnel syndrome, she slumped back into her chair. Her desk, one of the few pieces of furniture in her crowded bachelor apartment, suffocated under stacks of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and random photographs. Picking up her dented personal camera, she zoomed in on the current display, checking for the twelfth time what she was certain she had seen.

Though half of the shot was covered by the top edge of the Briefs' security gate, the focus was directly centred on the distant edge of the main yellow building and the two figures against its wall. Although the backside of the acting president was the most prominent sight, Natalie was desperately trying to focus in on the figure behind the blue-haired Brief, sliding the view from the mess of aquamarine curls, down the shoulder and to the sharp features of the man behind it, about whom she had only heard the faintest of rumours.

"I know I've seen that hairstyle before," she bit her thumbnail in thought. As she examined the viewing screen of her camera more closely, she followed the lines of the man's hair, upswept and pointed, like a burning flame—

"That's it!" she exclaimed, nearly dropping her camera in her excitement. Back to the laptop, she opened a folder on her desktop labelled "AHO Internship."

Despite the broken video files she found, she did not lose hope. "I know there has to be at least one shot of both of them . . ." she poured over stills of a terrifying bald behemoth of an alien and frightful little green monsters, and shots blurred from electromagnetic disturbance. "Bald guy . . . bald guy . . . static . . . static . . . green thing . . . bald guy . . . there!" She giggled in delight. "I knew it, I knew it!"

On her screen was one of the few images that had remained intact of the Saiyan invasion. Up front was a close-up shot of one of those disgusting green things they had grown from the ground, standing in front of a handful of others. Behind that, however, was pay dirt: both the tall bald alien and his partner were standing in the background, and the one on the right had just the hairstyle she was looking for.

Raising her camera up to the laptop screen to view the images closer together, Natalie nodded excitedly to herself. "There's no way that's coincidence. They're identical—it's got to be the same guy!" Saving the file, she opened up her word processor and began her work, smiling contentedly to herself. In a flurry of fingers, she wrote wildly, trying to get every salient detail she could from her previous interviews, pulling up her notes from the last few weeks of her tireless hunt for information. After about half an hour of furious typing, she picked up her phone and punched in the number with trembling hands.

"Hey, Chad! No, no . . . I know how late it is," she dismissed the protests on the other line. "Listen," she cut off the complaints, "do you remember that internship we did at AHO last year?"

Natalie hit a quick save on her screen as she listened to Chad's rambling. "Yeah . . . I know, I know . . . but wait until you see what I dug up! You'll flip! No, it's not like last time, I promise! Just check your e-mail and meet me tomorrow morning, bright and early . . . oh, I promise, it'll be worth it—and you'd better give me credit for this one, otherwise I'm posting it on my blog first . . . yeah, it's that good! Why do you think I'd be calling you? I'm telling you, this story's gonna make it for me! . . . right, call me back as soon as you do."

Sliding her phone shut, she relaxed a little in her desk chair, grinning madly to herself. "Natalie Quire, you're going to the big leagues now! No more crappy NewzPop gossip blogging for you, no way. From here on out, you'll be a Times journalist for sure!" She gave another smug look to the cursor on her screen, flickering beside the large title:

"_Bulma Brief Harbours Mass-Murdering Alien_."

* * *

><p>AN: Now we're getting somewhere. Remember season 1 with all the helicopters and reporters? Yeah, well, a lot of their jackets and cargo had the letters AHO on them. Don't ask me what it stands for; I don't know. I'm just using the episodes as building material.<p>

Natalie Quire's name is (hopefully obviously) based on everyone's favourite tabloid, _The National Inquirer_.

Not sure if it's right, but I made Scratch a boy. I don't know why—I have two male cats. I guess I'm just used to thinking of them that way. Also, I did not convert the salary into zeni. I believe zeni are equivalent to yen, but the numbers get so huge you have to work it out monthly, and that just gets awkward. Besides, I see the Briefs as more Americanized, so it'd more likely that they'd pay in dollars, right? Well, I'll keep telling myself that.


	4. Skeletons

CHAPTER FOUR – Skeletons

* * *

><p>Pulling on her gloves, a lab technician turned to her colleague. "Really? Are you sure?"<p>

"Positive," the man beside her moved several images around on the touch-screen console. "They said that the impact caused a 4.5 tremor. Good thing it was way out in central, huh Feynman?"

"I guess—nothing really out there to get damaged. I still think it's weird, though," Feynman began prepping the machine in front of her, flicking a switch and watching as the opaque shield over the large window in front of them lifted. "I mean, you'd think they could have predicted a meteor shower."

"It wasn't a shower though—the reports say it was a single impact," her fellow technician ran the diagnostics up on his screen, waiting as the points on the checklist individually gave a green light when ready. "I'm just surprised they haven't identified the stuff yet—it's been days! If _I_ had a team out there, you can bet we'd check what that meteor's made of."

"Hmm . . . maybe they don't have access?" Feynman performed a few more checks on the machine before peering in the window to see if the vehicle was ready. Beyond the glass, a streamlined hovercar sat at the end of a circular strip of road, gleaming silver. "The impact and the earthquake could have damaged the area and blocked their way."

"Uh, hello? They could at least get a few photos of it from the air," he rolled his eyes at her.

"Don't be such a smartass, Sankey," Feynman quipped back at him. "Not everyone has the funds we do—they may not be able to afford air transport."

"What kind of team doesn't have a helicopter? And that's project leader Sankey to you," he grumbled.

"Oh please, you move up one notch higher than me for a few days and you can't stop rubbing it in my face," Feynman blew her dirty-blond bangs from her eyes in exasperation. "You forget that _I've_ been the project leader on the last _seven_ projects."

"Yeah," Sankey challenged back, snapping his goggles on over his brown eyes, "and you've been all riled up because you can't stand the fact that I was chosen over you for this one. Face it—I've got more experience in energy distribution and you know it."

Feynman frowned at him. Shifting her attention back to her work, she turned a dial to put the program on standby and picked up a clipboard to check off items from her procedure list with a grumbled "you're still a smartass."

"Aww, c'mon," Sankey overheard. "Don't be like that."

Feynman gave a disinterested huff and decided to change the subject. "So, how big do you think that meteor was?"

"I don't know—about half the size of the chip on your shoulder?" Sankey retorted snidely.

"Ugh! I don't know why I even put up with this," Feynman spat. "The next chance I get, I'm asking for a transfer."

"Yeah, yeah," Sankey ran an irritated hand through his dark hair. "I've heard that before."

"I mean it this time!" Feynman fumed. "I'm tired of you always—oh! G-good morning, Doctor Pareto," her complaints were interrupted when she saw her superior enter the lab.

Sankey turned and also offered a greeting.

Mark Pareto descended the stairs to the console platform with a wry grin on his face. "Did I interrupt another lover's quarrel?"

A furious blush crossed both of the two technician's cheeks. "We are _not_ lovers," Feynman sputtered.

"Definitely," Sankey doubled.

"Well, whatever that was, keep it in the bedroom," the lead scientist waved off their indignation. "We've got company."

"Miss Brief!" the two techs suddenly stood up straighter as the blue-haired heiress entered the room.

Their attention was lost on her as she closed the door with a distracted hand, her other holding a mobile phone to her ear. "Nancy, it's just a blog post," Bulma sighed into the receiver. "Yes, I know it's got a lot of hits, but . . . no! If we sue for libel, it'll just lend weight to that crazy story. Right . . . uh huh . . . we should just leave it alone for now—it'll run its course. Yes, but . . . well, if you catch wind of it going to the larger papers, you do what you have to, but not before, got it? Okay. Yes, I know. Thank you."

"Nancy Ganttsy got her panties in bunch?" Mark piped up once Bulma had hung up on her secretary.

"Miss Gantt just overreacts sometimes," Bulma pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to get the memory of Nancy's shrill, panicked voice out of her head while still sounding professional in front of her employee. "Now, what seems to be the problem here? When I came in here last week everything was fine," her frown settled on her head scientist.

Mark Pareto gulped a little, his good-natured teasing now at a sudden halt. "Er, well . . ." he hugged his clipboard to his chest.

"How did the preliminary test run go?"

"Uh," Mark tried to loosen his collar, which now seemed too tight. The test reports on his clipboard rustled a little as he moved. "Which one?"

Bulma narrowed her eyes suspiciously. The preparations for the current test run seemed to be in order, the machines humming nicely and giving off green lights on their displays. The technicians, however, did not look so ready to go. In particular, the man with dark hair seemed to be sweating, fogging up the edges of his goggles. He squirmed a little when her imperious look fell on him. "How many test runs have there been so far?"

Sankey swallowed audibly. "Fifteen," he answered in a small voice.

"What? Give me that!" she snatched the clipboard from Mark's hands, rifling through the pages of the supervisory report for some sort of explanation. "Why on earth would you need so many? What's wrong?"

"We . . . uh, hit a little . . . just a tiny . . . snag," Mark confessed.

"Snag?" Bulma could not help the tenseness creeping into her voice.

Exasperated at being shoved to the background, Feynman spoke up. "The energy absorption has been working flawlessly, Miss Brief. However," she gave a pointed look to Sankey as if his presence were the cause for the trouble, "we've had minimal success in the impact resistance."

"How minimal?" Bulma stepped down the stairs after Mark, ending up standing next to Sankey as he continued to perspire.

"It . . . it hasn't been so bad," he fidgeted nervously. "It's just—"

"The last ones all ended up in the scrap heap," Feynman finished for him, becoming bold and a little smug at his discomfort.

Bulma tapped the edge of the computer console with an irritated finger. "And what modifications have we made to improve this?"

"We . . . ah, we've mixed a new alloy," Sankey turned away from the head of the entire company and began checking non-essential items on the touch-screen. "It's still b-based on the old model, but we've placed a . . . higher percentage of titanium into the mix."

"It's made the car much heavier, mind you," Mark stepped in, pointing to a page on the chart Bulma had snatched from him, "but we think the new mix will hold up better on impact."

"It'd better," Bulma read over the stats. "What good is a car that can absorb laser beams but can't survive a fender-bender?"

"Right," Mark picked up a set of goggles and handed one to the acting company president. "We'll find out in this next run then, won't we?" He gave a pointed glance to Sankey, who cringed a little.

"Initiating test-run," the project leader flicked a switch to run the program.

Through the large window in front of them, all four could see several lights spring to life, lining the path just in front of the silver vehicle. A reflected sheen flashed over the chassis of the car as the thrusters in the back flashed in ignition and caused it to pull against the metal restraints. A red warning light came on, pulsing in time with the automated countdown. The group behind the window took a breath as the count neared zero, and Sankey pressed a hesitant finger to the start button.

Immediately, the restraints on the vehicle released, and the car shot out onto the lit track, rushing along the curve of the road. The white-hot trail of exhaust from the thrusters trailed behind as it made a few preliminary laps, easing into its optimal speed.

"All right," Mark breathed once he was ready. "Let's see how much this one can hold up. Feynman, lasers."

"Initiating laser assault, fifty percent capacity," Feynman adjusted her goggles and turned a dial.

The walls around the miniaturized race course suddenly opened up about a dozen narrow slots on each side. From the holes emerged several different types of firearms, now glowing hot with their charges. As the silver vehicle made its fifth lap, a volley of red beams shot from the nearest wall, striking into the side of the metal chassis.

"Seventy-five percent capacity," Feynman stated, turning the dial up another few notches.

The far wall struck now, sending brighter beams at the moving vehicle. The surface of the metal chassis seemed to waver, as if it were liquid, rippling out each time a beam came into contact.

She gave another turn of the dial. "Lasers at maximum capacity."

Even behind the goggles the group had to close their eyes for a moment as the nearest wall lit up the window with a blinding light. When the assault had ceased, the undulating metal of the car's surface stabilized with a rippling gleam, leaving no hint of damage.

"Well, that appears to be working as planned," Bulma surmised as the car came around again without a scratch on it. "But it does seem to be running much slower than I'd like."

Mark made a few notes on his clipboard. "Then let's see if the weight of the titanium is worth it," he looked up at Sankey, who nodded.

"Beginning impact test, fifty percent force," he typed a new command into the touch-screen.

As the car made another round, the road in front of it suddenly sprouted a metal wall directly in its path. At full speed, the car smashed into the obstacle with a crash, the front end crumpling forward, only to bounce back slowly with the same strange rippling surface.

Sankey released a shaky breath. "Fifty percent impact nullified," he grinned as the car slowed its backward movement to a halt.

"That's definitely an improvement from last time," Mark ticked a few more notes onto his clipboard.

"Let's see how far it's come," Bulma narrowed her eyes. "Start her up again, and let's hit her with eighty percent force this time."

"All right, you've got it," Sankey smiled, regaining his confidence.

Feynman gave him a withering look. "Bet you a cafeteria coffee it crumbles."

"Make it a latte from Mario's on First Street, and you're on," Sankey countered, typing in the new commands.

Feynman crossed her arms, but nodded in agreement as she turned her attention back to the speeding vehicle behind the glass.

The silver hovercar sprang back to life once Sankey gave the re-ignition command, and it sped around for another three laps to set its pace. Once it had reached maximum speed, the project leader sent up another wall with a flurry of his fingertips. There was a groaning sound underneath it as the wall moved along a metal track speeding a direct course toward the moving vehicle, opposing it with an almost identical speed. The sound the two made on impact nearly deafened the group of scientists in the next room.

"Agh," Sankey rubbed his right ear.

"Did it work?" Mark recovered quickly, trying to peer through the glass, which was obscured with an unpromising black smoke.

"Aww, man!" Sankey moaned once the window cleared. Below them on the track was nothing but a pile of debris, hissing and smouldering from the heat of impact. The sleek silver car was no longer able to be identified.

Bulma's lips set in a frown. "So much for titanium."

"We could try something else," Mark suggested. "Something stronger?"

Bulma rubbed her temple, knitting together the pieces of the problem at hand. "If we get anything stronger the car won't be able to move properly . . . it needs to be something lighter . . ." she mused, closing her eyes.

"Miss Brief?" Feynman spoke up, removing her goggles. "If I could make a suggestion?"

"Hm? What is it?" Bulma asked distractedly, still working through it in her head.

"Well, we don't necessarily need something stronger to mix in with it," Feynman began. "Maybe the problem isn't in the initial alloy. Maybe we just need two separate layers."

"You mean we put the energy impact alloy on top of a force impact one?" Mark looked up from his furious clipboard-scribbling.

"Right. That way, instead of weighing it down with a heavy mixture of alloys, we could focus on finding a light-weight material for the skeleton."

"But," Sankey scratched his head. "I don't know of anything strong enough that wouldn't be just as heavy on its own."

"No, but Wright Materials might," Mark put a hand to his chin. "Miss Brief, do you think they might be working on something similar that we could use?" he turned to his boss.

Bulma still had her eyes closed, rubbing a hand to her temple, as if massaging out an idea.

"Miss Brief?" Mark began to look concerned.

"Air," she murmured, coming out of her daze.

"What?"

"Air," she repeated. "We don't need any fancy impact force material. We need air pressure."

"Hey, that just might do it," Feynman caught on. "If we leave a cushion of air between the two materials, it'll delay the time the time it takes to stop, so the second one doesn't have to be nearly as strong. The pressure would work to relieve most of the force."

"But you still need something pretty tough under the energy alloy," Sankey pointed out. "Otherwise, the air pressure might work against us and crush the interior."

"So we should still check with Wright Materials," Mark assessed. "Aren't you in some kind of negotiation with them already?" he asked Bulma.

Bulma was already pulling out her cell phone. "I'm on it. You guys take a break for now," she began making her way up the stairs. "I'll see if we can't work something out with WM—and I'll take one of the prototypes home to work on myself."

"All right, coffee break, guys," Mark instructed the other two. "But I expect full reports by three today."

"And I expect a hazelnut latte from Mario's," Feynman shot a smug look to Sankey.

"Ugh, can I go to the bathroom first at least?" Sankey pleaded with her. "I need to wash the stink of failure off my hands. I really thought that titanium would work."

"Bad luck," Mark put a comforting hand on Sankey's shoulder. "Happens to all of our hypotheses at one point or another."

"Yeah," Sankey agreed, "but how come mine always seem to happen when we're in front of the boss?"

* * *

><p>Vegeta hit the ground with a bone-shattering crash. The whirring of the sentinel droids became more distant as he struggled to keep his eyes open. A tremor ran through his spine and his limbs spasmed slightly as he lay prone on his back, pinned down by four hundred fifty times the planet's normal gravity. He was fading, drifting backward, he knew—his limbs felt lighter now, and he no longer could smell the charred skin from his shoulder and fresh blood on the floor coming from his mouth, his chest, and his arms. His knees were bent, one of them slightly twisted, and his right arm had fallen, slightly outstretched. He had known this feeling before, known this position of his limbs, their lightness as he began to fade from his body—<p>

"_You're going to have to get over your soft-heartedness. Do it—you'll have to forget about your feelings. You have to. They'll get you killed—they'll get you killed, Kakarrot_."

"_I can't. I can't change who I am—not on the battlefield. My feelings are my guide_."

Vegeta's brow tensed as he hovered at the edge of consciousness. _Was that what it was? _the thought circled through the haze of his wearied mind. _Was that why he made the transformation . . . why I have failed so many times now?_ It felt like he was swimming, drifting beyond the pain of his bloodied limbs into a great darkness. The longer he felt himself carried in that dark haze, the stronger the pull seemed to be.

_But . . . those feelings—those attachments . . . they cloud judgment_, he roiled against the dark pull on his mind. _They can be easily exploited, a weakness—and yet . . ._ he forced himself out of the pull of that darkness, _yet if they can be harnessed . . ._

He willed his eyes back open. The red tiles of the gravity chamber wavered in his vision, and his ears slowly picked up the sounds of the droids circling above him, awaiting instruction. With a heave, he turned himself onto all fours, feeling a lancing jolt go through his left arm when he put weight on it. He ignored it as he slowly got to his feet. _If that's what it is_, he gritted his teeth while he stood, _if it's an emotional trigger that starts the transformation . . ._ he began to steady his breathing, _then surely . . . there is no feeling Kakarrot could possibly have that's stronger . . ._

He turned to face the droids. "Initiate program sigma," he snarled at the computer, and watched as it flashed to life, and the droids adjusted their formation. Clenching his fists at the ready, his brow set in determination. _There is no feeling Kakarrot could possibly have that's stronger than my _rage_._

* * *

><p>Natalie plaited the other side of her blond hair irritably. "Just wait until I get my hands on that Chad," she grumbled. "He'll be sorry he ever passed up my story. I'm glad I posted it anyway," she huffed, checking her smart phone for the umpteenth time. The number of hits on her news blog had increased, and she gave a triumphant little smirk at it before stuffing the device back into her messenger bag.<p>

Stepping off her blue motorbike, she quickly encapsulated it and adjusted her hair in its pigtails again. "I sure hope this works," she shifted in her short pleated skirt. She had donned a school uniform, complete with collared shirt and necktie, as well as her old West City High School badge. She leaned up against the Capsule Corp. housing complex with a deep breath, preparing herself.

"All right, Natalie," she encouraged herself. "This is the performance of a lifetime. If you can get this, then the story's all yours, and no one will ignore you anymore. It's your big break, girl! You gotta grab it," she pumped her fist with determination. With a few resolute steps in her school-issued loafers, she turned the corner to the barred and tinted gate of the main entrance, only to find she was not alone.

A man in what seemed like a motorcycle helmet was standing in front of the wall, unmoving. He looked like a police officer, though Natalie was not sure if she had ever seen a uniform quite like his. It was black and silver, so that was normal enough, but it appeared to be more like a body suit, a solid sheet of black fabric up the length of his body, and large silver cuffs around his forearms and calves. She heard a soft 'beep' come from his helmet, and he quickly turned toward her, nearly making her jump out of her skin.

_Oh man_, she thought in a slight panic. _It's not illegal to impersonate a high school student, is it? I mean . . . it shouldn't be . . . or maybe he knows about the audio recorder in my bag? Crap, crap, crap!_

"Miss," his voice was muffled behind the dark glass visor of the helmet.

Natalie struggled to find her voice. "Erm . . . uh, yes?"

"Tell me," the voice was flat. "Is this the Capsule Corp. building of the one called Bulma?"

"W-what?" Natalie blinked at the question. "Uh, yeah. Bulma Brief's house. Everyone knows that," she raised an eyebrow at the officer. _Wait, you're a teenager, remember?_ she berated herself. _Act teenage-y!_ "Duh," she finished with a twirl of her pigtails.

The helmeted man turned away from her and gave another glance at the imposing gate before adjusting something on the side of his helmet. With another 'beep' he turned on his heel and set off down the sidewalk without another word.

Natalie stared after him. _Well, that's weird_. She saw his form stride toward the next street and turn the corner. _Maybe he parked somewhere down there_, she shrugged before turning to the com-link panel on the outside of the gate.

She took out a compact and made sure her make-up looked suitably unpractised, and loosened her tie. With another preparatory breath, she closed her eyes. _You can do this. You'll get your story, and then you'll end up working for the Times. You'll be a real journalist, and Natalie Quire will be on front page by-lines, not just on a gossip blog._ She tightened her pigtails and set herself in view of the com-link screen. _It's show time! Get 'em, girl!_

She punched the intercom button.

* * *

><p>"So is there any way we can move up the retreat?" Bulma tapped her finger against her desk.<p>

"They have an opening for this weekend," Nancy Gantt checked her tablet, "but that's awfully short notice for the other company heads."

"And Sage City doesn't have any other resorts that'll work?" the acting president ran a hand through her curls, thinking.

Her secretary made a few more taps on her pad. "All the others aren't far enough into the mountains for your demonstration," she pursed her already small mouth. "We could cut a day from the trip to give everyone more time to pack."

"No," Bulma frowned. "I'll need the whole four days. We've got to wow them—that includes the whole package."

"If I could speak freely, Miss Brief?" Nancy asked, adjusting the small wire glasses on her nose.

"Of course," Bulma waved her hesitance aside.

"Are you sure it's a good idea to go into negotiations with Wright Materials at this time? Especially since that story came out on the internet—"

"You mean that gossip blog?" Bulma laughed. "It's just some nobody making up stories. I doubt anyone high up at WM reads those things."

"Yes, but," Nancy gave her boss a level look, "news travels. If any part of that story is credible, the real papers will eat it up."

"Well, it's not. All of that story is definitely _in_credible," Bulma crossed her arms with a huff, "in every sense of the word."

"Y-yes, of course," Nancy was slightly taken aback at the forcefulness of Bulma's tone. "I only think that maybe we should resolve the issue before any nasty rumours spread."

"I told you already," Bulma began tapping again. "If we sue for libel, it'll make the story more popular and more believable." She closed her eyes and leaned back in her black leather chair. "We just need to let it run its course. As it is, no paper's going to want to touch a story like that with a ten foot pole."

"Well, I suppose you're right," Nancy brushed a short strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I mean, _aliens _living at Capsule Corp.—it's beyond ridiculous."

"Yup," Bulma looked away to check her laptop, where the blog headline splashed across the screen: _Bulma Brief Harbours Mass-Murdering Alien_. "Ridiculous," she echoed, scanning through the prose and photos.

"Well, anyway, I still think we should keep the original reservation for the retreat," Nancy was back to business. "I know you want to negotiate sooner for the parts to that alloy project, but we need to keep the CEOs happy. It's not like they can pack up at the drop of a hat."

"Hm?" Bulma looked back up from the computer screen. "Oh, right. Well, see if you can't test the waters with their secretaries. If we throw in a spa package, they might be more inclined to go sooner."

"Are you sure we should spend that—"

"Nancy," Bulma rolled her eyes, "I've told you before. We have funds saved up for this kind of thing."

"It just seems . . . frivolous," the last word felt distasteful on Nancy's tongue.

Bulma gave a small laugh. "It's not as bad as Dad's 'emergency golf account.'"

"Emergency _what_?" Nancy nearly fell into a fit of apoplexy.

"Hey," Bulma shrugged, "we all have our vices."

* * *

><p>Vegeta wiped the blood from his mouth, panting. The sentinel droids whirred around him, encircling him just beyond the smoke. His body trembled from the force of the gravity, and he could barely breathe for the smell of his own burning flesh. He stared down at his left hand, the blood smudged over his skin. "No more games," he growled.<p>

"_Who does this fool think he's dealing with? He's beneath me. I'll show him—I'll show them all. I'll reduce this place to ashes!_"

The heat in the room made his vision waver, and the red tiles almost appeared to look like the dusty ground of a barren wasteland, the column of the central computer a rocky pillar as the memories came back to him.

"_Kakarrot! Dodge this next attack if you can, but know that if you do, your precious little planet will be gone!_"

"You don't know the _meaning_ of rage!" Vegeta sent a shockwave of energy around him, blasting up stray pieces of the broken tiles in the chamber. The pressure hit the walls around him with a clang, and he could hear the metal struts straining as the force threatened to tear off the roof.

He sent a blast of energy, a stream of light tinged purple, just like he had on that day. The barely contained beam of a Gallick Gun rushed from his cupped hands, and he felt the force of it pouring from his body as he dug for more power from the pit of his chest.

There was that darkness again—the maelstrom, the whirlpool that threatened to pull him in. It sat deep in his chest, the pit of his heart, threatening oblivion with lashing tendrils as he felt the blind rage coursing through his veins.

"It's not enough," he dodged the reflected Gallick Gun attack. "Not enough, just like then," he waited for the attack to be returned. Standing his ground, he took the full force of the impact this time, feeling it sear his skin and push him backward.

With the wave of energy came a new darkness, roiling and bristling inside him. The indignation—_overthrown by low-level trash!_ He felt his veins pulsing with the pounding of his heart, amplified by the sickening gall of the humiliation—_I, the prince of all Saiyans!_ With a roar, he cast off the beam of energy, hurling it into the wall of the ship.

The wall wavered as if liquid, and the energy dissipated, the only indication of its impact a fading ripple. Vegeta turned back to the droids, settling his breathing. His chest felt like it had been chewed up and spit out, internally and externally.

"No," he spat out more blood. "I will not stay at this level. I will _not_ fail," his lungs wheezed. "I _cannot_ fail!"

* * *

><p>"Oh, how adorable! I think it's great you're working so hard for your school paper," Mrs. Brief tittered as she poured another cup of tea.<p>

"Thank you Mrs. B.," Natalie smiled as she took the cup. "I hope I can use my experience for my college applications."

"I'm sure you'll do great!" the older woman smiled confidently. "We're always happy to help when it comes to education. So, what is it you want to know?"

"Well, I'm working on an article about the Brief family," Natalie took out her pad of paper. "You know, kind of a whole 'the faces behind the corporation' thing."

"What a wonderful idea," Mrs. Brief squeezed a lemon slice into her cup. "Where should we start?"

"Well, why don't we get the whole household," Natalie scratched a note onto her paper, trying not to be too loud. She stole a glance to her messenger bag where her audio recorder was running. "Who lives in this house? What are the daily routines?"

"Oh, well there are four of us—five if you count Scratch."

"Scratch?"

"Our little stray cat. He isn't much of a people person, but he never leaves my husband alone. He won't say it, but he's rather attached to him as well. Never does a project without him."

"Er," Natalie crossed out the notes she had just written. "Right, and the others? What about the other people who live here?"

"Well, it's hard to tell who wakes up first around here, but I'm normally up with the sun!" Pansy Brief beamed. "Sometimes I make Vegeta breakfast if he doesn't take it in his room, and then I see Bulma off before she rushes out the do—"

"Wait, Vegeta?" Natalie quirked a brow. "Who's that?"

"Oh, he's our handsome houseguest!" Mrs. Brief adjusted her curls, preening. "I don't see him nearly as much as I'd like—he's always working _so_ hard!"

"Working?" Natalie pressed. "Is he an employee?"

"Well, I'm not really sure," Mrs. Brief put a finger to her lips. "My husband says he's been helping him, so I guess that's true—but he certainly doesn't follow the dress code! Always running around in those _tight_ shorts . . ." her voice trailed off at images of a firm tush in spandex.

"What does he do around here?"

"Oh, well, he's mostly training—always talking about getting stronger. You know, I think he takes his first fight here too seriously. The man has a permanent frown! I always tell Bulma that her face will freeze if she—"

"First fight?" Natalie had a hard time reigning in her chattering interviewee.

"Yes, the first time he came here. Oh, if it hadn't been for Goku there would have been trouble! The fight on television didn't even come close! Bulma told me all about what she saw on the crystal ball, and, let me tell you, it was crazy!"

Natalie could not get her notes out fast enough and was grateful she had had the foresight to bring a recorder. "Please, tell me more," she smiled pleasantly.

* * *

><p>He could feel it welling up inside him, rising up, clinging to the edges of his heart like a viscous tar. He screamed, shaking the core of his being, and the captive energy he had built up within ran forth in gyrating blue spikes. Something deep within him was escaping through his tearing vocal cords as he pulled at the surface of that darkness inside, trying to control it.<p>

"_Do it, boy! Make the wish!_"

He was so close! The blackness of the sky had reflected the ambition he had held for so long. Before him was the image of that giant dragon, the Namekian creature that would grant him his greatest desire.

_Yes_, his mind had raced at that time. He was standing before the dragon as the small Namek child chanted in his foreign tongue, anticipation building up. _A new Vegeta is born—an indestructible power that only can get stronger from every battle!_

Then the Namekian child had ended his incantation with his name, shouting it out to the sky like a herald of the new king, echoing out into the universe that would soon become his for the taking—Vegeta, Prince of Saiyans, would finally become the ruler, gain his birthright, immortal and unstoppable—

But the dragon was fading. It flickered, flashing with an inconsistent glow. The fiery red eyes of the beast faded, turned dark, and began to hiss with trails of smoke. In an instant, the towering apparition lost its structural integrity, rising in a column of smoke. The glowing orbs also rose, flying up into the sky with alarming speed, until they flashed bright and separated, plummeting to the ground with a thundering force. They were no longer the orange jewelled spheres, but inert balls of cold stone. The defeat drenched his being like a wave of cold water.

"So close!" he snarled, punching back at blast of energy and sending it flying toward the incessantly humming droids. It was growing hotter in the chamber, and he felt the seeping darkness in his heart begin to burn. The ferocity, the frustration blistered him from the inside, denied his immortality, denied his birthright, denied the opportunity to avenge—

"One shot," he dodged the beam again. "That was my one shot," he smacked the beam from his face out toward another sentinel. His eyes burned as the energy blast was returned, brushing past his face. Rising up from the ground, he encased himself in an aura of glowing energy, feeling that fire from the pit of his chest churning, and he was not sure if it was attempting to escape or to drag him down into it.

"It won't happen again!" he shouted, smothering the blackness in a bright flash of his own energy, attempting to channel it into his attack. "I will not be denied again!"

* * *

><p>"So Bulma went off in a spaceship?" Natalie had long stopped trying to make sense of the story Mrs. Brief was telling her.<p>

"Oh yes, she and Krillin and little Gohan flew off to Namek for a few days," the older woman stated as if it were a typical vacation.

"So what happened on Namek?" Natalie scratched some more shorthand onto her notes.

"You know," Mrs. Brief tilted her head, "I'm not really sure. They were only there for a week or so—well, except Goku and Krillin, but they were dead . . . no wait, Krillin was dead, but Goku escaped and wanted to wait on a different planet," the vacuous blond put a finger to her temple, clearly having difficulty keeping track of the events. "There was probably an awful fight, you know, since the planet blew up. Little Gohan told me it was terrifying! But they were all working together and they won! Well, we wished people back to life, and to make a long story short, we had several nice green men and Vegeta living at our house for a bit. I guess Bulma must have invited them—poor dears! No place to go . . ."

Natalie had to pause to collect her own thoughts, a whirling set of images of alien invaders, super-powered martial artists, magical balls that granted wishes, people coming back from the dead—her brain was overloaded, and she hoped that her audio recorder had been able to pick up most of the story so she could sort through it later.

"So, how did Goku get back?" Natalie was finally able to ask.

"Oh, well he was on his way here when that monster man came here to blow up the planet," Mrs. Brief continued airily, "but a boy from the future came and gave him a good wallop! Bulma told me he was quite a handsome young man . . ."

* * *

><p>"I'm heading out early, Nancy," Bulma picked up her purse and slung it on her shoulder. "It might help me avoid the paparazzi rush today."<p>

Nancy closed the filing cabinet drawer she had finished organizing. "That's probably for the best. Shall I move your appointment with legal to tomorrow morning?"

Bulma smacked her forehead. "I totally forgot about that! Stupid patents," she brushed some stray blue curls from her face.

"Is there a problem?" Nancy asked, concerned. "I could cancel it if you want."

"No," Bulma rubbed the bridge of her nose. "It was Dad's decision, that's all. He didn't even consult me, and now I have to sort out the mess," she gave an exasperated sigh. "I mean, I just don't want to end up being the one to pay that jerk to live with u—uh," she stopped herself at the look her secretary was giving her. "Uh, what I meant was, I just don't want to deal with another boring legal meeting. Do you think you could sit in on it for me?"

Nancy gave her an incredulous look. "Miss Brief, are you sure about that? I know that my contract gives me the ability to preside over legal matters with your consent, but really, I think you should—"

"You'll do fine," Bulma was already halfway out the door. "Just follow the agreement my dad wrote out. It's really simple."

"But Miss Brief—"

"You're a lifesaver, Nancy!" Bulma called out behind her, ignoring her secretary's protests.

* * *

><p>His half-lidded eyes could barely make out the green blur of the sky. Something was at his back, pounding, shattering his spine, tearing his kidneys, forcing the air from his lungs in choking, bloody gasps. The pain shot from his back down through his knees, which dangled weakly from under him. His arms hung, heavy, from his shoulders, lifeless, helpless.<p>

Cold flesh gripped his neck, tightening with each blow. It turned him around, and the blows fell on his face while his eyes could barely focus on the pale, grinning features below him. He struggled to breathe, to speak, to protest, but only a gasping gout of blood came out.

With a flash of light, Vegeta was back in the gravity room. He blinked to clear the image from his mind, trying to focus back on his training, trying to dredge up the rage he needed to ascend. Three blasts were circulating in the air now. With a deft roll to his right, he avoided the second, grimacing as his damaged left arm hit the ground. There was little time to complain, however, as the third blast came at him, and he was forced to take to the air above it to dodge.

That pit in his chest felt like it was expanding, but the darkness was no longer rising up over his heart—it was pulling, drawing him inward. That fury, the all-consuming fire in the fibres of his being he had felt when confronted with that pale face he had been forced to serve, sank into the darkness inside him. The whirling vortex in the prison house of his heart's depths snatched up the anger and held it captive, drawing it downward—

He spun to his left, avoiding another blast. _I have to control it_, he tensed himself at the ready, waiting for the next blast. The sentinels bounced the energy blasts around him so quickly it almost seemed like a solid wall, trapping him inside. The white around him seemed to come closer, suffocating around him, causing his breath to quicken. He could almost feel the coppery taste of his strangled breathing from that day—

A beam struck him on his left side, half-blinding him as he felt his face burn from the energy, and then felt his right side crumple against the wall. He fell to the ground on his back, coughing as the wind was knocked out of him.

"_My my, what do we have here? A fallen prince . . ._"

As he pulled himself back up, his vision faded again, and it seemed someone was pulling him upward, upward to face the cold eyes and twisted black smile that loomed above him.

"_Goodnight, sweet prince_."

The sweat ran down his brow, chilling him as the darkness inside washed him with a foreign emotion. This was not the fury he was striving for, not the rage for his transformation. As his memories and the reality of his training program began to blur, he saw the bright light of a beam of energy come at him as he lay halfway on the ground, unable to move, unable to dodge, unable to fight back.

Fear. His heart felt frozen as the furious whirling in the pit of his chest gave way to a chill that ran through his whole body. He tried to scream when the beam slammed into his chest, but no words, no sounds would come out. As the blast forced him back down the ground, the terror dissipated back into the spiralling storm in his heart, sucked into that tenebrous chasm, leaving nothing but an eddying despair.

"No!" Vegeta launched himself from the ground, willing himself, dragging himself out of the desperate void inside. He narrowly dodged an energy blast deflected at him, and before the next droid could catch it in its field, he slammed a well-placed kick to the top of it, crumpling the metal and hurling it down to the ground. The energy blast, with nothing to deflect it, shot into the wall, absorbed on impact.

He did not stop moving. Down he went, back flipping as another blast came his way, each impact he made with the ground four hundred fifty times what it should have been. The pounding of his movement on the floor echoed the pounding of his heart thudding in his ears as he blocked out the dark despairing maelstrom below. He backed up below another sentinel droid, and with a leap he rose and snatched it from the air just as the two beams coalesced and came at him simultaneously. With a whirl, he spun with the droid in his hands and knocked the two beams back with its deflective surface before throwing the droid to the ground where it shattered.

"I will not be overcome!" he snarled at the three remaining droids bouncing the two beams among them. One of the beams came at him fast on a direct course. With a swift kick, he shot it over the droids and into the far wall where it disappeared with a waver and ripple.

"Not disgrace," he leapt up and crushed his fist into another sentinel, pulling out its wired innards and leaping away before the rest of it exploded.

"Not defeat," he spun several back flips in the air before he set his feet against the wall, using it to propel his body forward.

"Not even death—" he crashed his head into one of the two sentinels left just as it sent the last energy beam to its partner. The dented metal sphere hit the ceiling before bouncing back down to the ground in a shower of sparks.

"—will keep me from what's _mine_!" he fell upon the final droid and its energy beam with his left arm extended. In one crushing motion, his hand caught the energy blast and shoved it back onto the sentinel droid. The force of his momentum carried all three, Saiyan, blast, and sentinel, into the reinforced wall.

The sound of tearing metal echoed in the chamber as the sentinel droid was pounded into the side, scraping on its way down. The energy blast detonated against the droid's mangled surface before the absorbing properties of the wall could take effect, surrounding the room in a blinding white light in an explosion that propelled Vegeta's body to the ground. He skidded on the cracked tiles, his eyes forced shut by the burning brightness.

* * *

><p>With a few spritzes of hairspray and some touch-ups with her compact, Bulma tidied herself up to face the rush-hour onslaught. With a deep breath, she put her travel-sized toiletries back in her handbag and straightened the lapel of her jacket. <em>Ready<em>, she thought.

As Bulma stepped out of her car, she was relieved to see only about half of the journalists she had been expecting. She tossed her hair over shoulder and shut the door to her car with a swift, no-nonsense motion, conveying her sentiments to the cameramen in front of her.

"Miss Brief, Miss Brief!" the chorus started up again.

Bulma began taking several strident steps forward, but hesitated when she felt something raise the hair on the back of her neck. At her hesitation, the journalists swamped around her, but she paid them little attention. Beyond the camera flashes and the barrage of questions, she could feel eyes on her, and they were not looking for a photo op.

"—corner the market on telecommunications?"

"I-I'm sorry?" Bulma shifted her focus back to the microphone in front of her.

"Do you think your newest developments will corner the market on telecommunications?"

"Definitely," she slapped on a wide smile. "We've already got storage and transport under our belt, and you can bet that Capsule Corp. won't just rest on its laurels. We're expanding!" she put her hands on her hips confidently before started her walk up again.

As she pushed her way through more of the journalists, she could not help but scan the surrounding area. _Something's not right_, she thought, side-stepping around a large ZTV television camera. _I know that there shouldn't be as many reporters at this time of day, but something's missing._

"Excuse me, but have you put any thought into any more aerospace projects?"

"Hm?" she blinked at the camera, which she only just now noticed in front of her face. "Oh, well, not at the moment, no," she tried to pass him, but a few more journalists blocked her way.

_I haven't had a single personal question yet_, her brows furrowed in suspicion. _Where's that gossip blogger? She's normally the first one here._ As she struggled to get through the tightly knit mass of limbs in front of her, someone at the edge of the group dropped out of sight suddenly, and her eye caught something shiny as he disappeared. Before she could see anything substantial, however, more cameras flashed, preventing her from searching. When the spots were out of her eyes, there was no sign of the runaway paparazzi.

_I don't like this_, she frowned.

* * *

><p>He rose up painfully once the gravity had shut down. His left arm felt battered, possibly broken, and was certainly burnt. The charred skin started at his shoulder and spread up his neck and the side of his face, making it painful to keep his left eye open. Gazing around the gravity chamber, his eyes fell on the dents he had left in the walls of the chamber and the crumpled remnants of the sentinel droids, some of their parts still smoking.<p>

With a derisive snort, he appraised the damage. "So much for that tactic—it's only caused further setbacks," he scowled at the thought of how long it would take the old doctor to make repairs. As he took a few weary steps to the chamber exit, he noted that he felt exceptionally exhausted even though he had only sustained relatively minor injuries. "That's the last time," he grumbled punching the keys to open the door. _No more fighting with . . . with those foolish emotions_, his mind recoiled against the word. _I'm no closer to the transformation for it. There must be another way to reach it._

The wind whistled as the door opened, blowing into the chamber with a bitter cold against his skin. Looking out from the chamber, there was no red sky to meet his gaze. The clouds had rolled in, casting a diffused grey light at the horizon that matched his mood. As he stepped down the ramp and closed the door behind him, he sniffed the air and smelled the approach of rain.

_There's something else_, he stopped for a moment, breathing in the smell once more. The wind blew again, rushing through his hair and carrying the wet scent of rain, his own sweat, and another smell he did not recognize.

"Thanks Mrs. B.," a foreign voice reached him. "You've been a big help!"

"Glad to do it, sweetie," he saw the other Brief woman standing in the doorway of the capsule house. "I just hope you have enough for a good article on us!"

"Oh, you bet!" a younger woman in a ridiculously short skirt stood next to Mrs. Brief, grinning from ear to ear. "Now say cheese!" she pulled out a camera.

"Make sure you get my good side," Mrs. Brief giggled, giving a little pose for the young woman.

"Bothersome humans," Vegeta stayed close to the ship, hoping to remain out of sight.

"Miss Brief, Miss Brief!"

Vegeta's scowl deepened. "Not more of them," he glanced over at the barred and tinted gate, wincing as he tried to look through his left eye and was reminded of his burn injury with a sharp sting. He decided to stay put until the commotion finished, leaning on one of the supporting struts of the capsule ship.

"Don't worry," Bulma tried to cut her way around a few reporters as the gate opened. Several newsmen jostled around her, jockeying for position as she made her way past their extended microphones. "Believe me, when the new products come out you'll be the first to know," she closed the gate and leaned on it in a slump. "You always are," she muttered to herself.

"Miss Brief, Miss Brief!"

"What now?" Bulma turned toward the front door of her house, where she saw a familiar blonde in pigtails rushing toward her. "You!" she shouted in surprise.

"Boy, have I got some questions for you!" Natalie Quire, sole writer for the popular blog NewzPop, came running at the acting company president, notepad in hand.

"How did you get in here?" Bulma pressed her back against the security gate, still in shock.

"Miss Brief," Natalie panted, still running toward her, fishing out her audio recorder from her messenger bag, "could you tell me your reasoning behind allow—"

"_Aaaaaahhh!_"

Vegeta barely had time to dodge the white-hot flash of energy that shot out on his blind side. Whirling around to face the attacker, he hardly noticed the high-pitched scream that arose in front of the security gate. The strut he had been leaning on was charred in half, and the rounded form of Capsule 3 tilted off-balance with a groan of straining metal. Smoke rose in the air around him, further hindering his vision.

"Super Elite soldier Vegeta," a cold voice came from behind the wall of rising smoke, "number 009 of the Planet Trade Organization under Frieza—"

Vegeta could barely make out the form of someone emerging from the black clouds. Sparks flew from the damaged support for the capsule ship, and it fell further. A helmeted figure in black flashed into view as the area began to clear, and as the unknown man raised his hand, he heard the high-pitched whine of an energy charge aimed right at him.

"—for the crime of murder on an intergalactic scale, I've come for your head."

* * *

><p>AN: Oh, snap! There's that alien I promised . . .<p>

Name puns! Capsule Corp. employees are named after different types of charts:

A _Gantt_ chart illustrates a project schedule with bars. They show the start and finish dates of the terminal and summary elements of a project.

A _Pareto_ chart uses both bars and a line graph, with individual values represented in descending order by bars, and the cumulative total by the line. It's one of the seven basic tools of quality control.

_Feynman_ diagrams represent the mathematical expressions governing the behaviour of subatomic particles.

_Sankey_ diagrams are a type of flow diagram, typically used to visualize energy or material or cost transfers between processes.

For those playing the home game, flashbacks in this chapter come from eps. 31, 76, and 86. Oh, and I made up Vegeta's soldier number. I figure after the 5 Ginyu members, Zarbon, Dodoria, and Cui, that would make Vegeta the next ranking officer. Thus, 009.


	5. Served Cold

CHAPTER FIVE – Served Cold

Disclaimer: Don't own it. If I did, there would sure as hell be a Dragonball V.

* * *

><p>Bulma could hardly breathe for the smoke. It blew in billows around her, blocking her vision and her lungs as she leaned up against the security gate. A sick smell of something burnt reached her nose as the black clouds spiralled in the wind.<p>

When the smoke cleared, the eager blonde in pigtails was not there.

Bulma swallowed tightly, watching as the last dark tendrils clung to the charred remains of a messenger bag and a dented audio recording device. Her heart was pounding in her ears, shocked out of its normal rhythm. Across from her at the front door, her mother was looking on, hands over her mouth in a gasp, her face white as a sheet. Bulma clutched her chest over her heart, as if to see if she was still alive, still there. As she looked back at the still whirring audio recorder and the singed messenger bag atop a small pile of ashes, she felt a wave of nausea.

_That reporter is dead_, she felt the bile rise up, _and it could've been me_.

"—for the crime of murder on an intergalactic scale, I've come for your head."

Bulma turned her gaze woodenly to where the voice had come from, and saw the burning hulk of Capsule 3 teetering on three of its normal four support struts. From behind the wildly whipping clouds of burning black, she made out the gleam of a helmet.

"Do you make it habit of charging a man with a crime _after_ you've taken a shot at him?"

Bulma's eyes fell on Vegeta, who had apparently managed to dodge out of the way in time. His tone was its normal combination of irritated, taunting, and confident, though, with the way he was holding himself, he did not appear to have much reason to be so. His left arm and the side of his face looked scorched and raw, and even from where Bulma was standing, she could tell he had recently come out on the other side of a particularly exhausting training session.

"You have no right to speak," the voice came from behind the silver helmet. The intruder leapt quickly on top of the creaking Capsule 3 ship, holding his right arm out like a gun. He wore an all black bodysuit that covered him from neck to toe, and his limbs were encased in long metal cylinders. A high-pitched noise came from the silver casing on his right arm, and a glow began to form just above his hand as he held it out in a fist. "I'm here to make you pay for what you've done, Vegeta."

"Is that a fact?" the Saiyan asked dryly. "Well, you've lost the element of surprise," he raised his limbs into a fighting stance. "Care to try again?"

A white-hot blast came from the man's arm at lightning speed, crackling the air around it with an electric charge. Vegeta deftly leapt out of the way, and the energy burst into the ground of the Capsule compound lawn, sending up clods of dirt and grass.

"Take your punishment like a man!" the helmeted intruder shouted down at Vegeta, firing multiple shots at him. Dirt, rocks, and smoke flew into the air with every blast.

"Mom!" Bulma shouted across the yard to the door, "Get inside, quick!"

The older woman, too terrified to move, snapped to attention at her daughter's voice. "But Bulma, what about y—"

Several more blasts showered the path between them with debris.

"Just go!" Bulma shouted as she rushed behind one of the compound's planters. Pansy Brief ran inside the yellow house, slamming the door behind her.

Bulma peered out from behind a decorative rock and palm tree arrangement, waiting for the dust to clear.

"You'll have to do better than that," she heard Vegeta's mocking voice just before a sudden pressure wave flattened the dust. She barely got a glimpse of the Saiyan before he shot up from the ground at the intruder.

The helmeted attacker brought his arms up in defence as Vegeta rushed toward him, only to blink in astonishment when the man vanished. Not two breaths later, he felt his arms and shoulders nearly crushed behind him.

"What's the matter?" Vegeta's voice echoed strangely off the back of the metal helmet. The intruder struggled in the full nelson Vegeta had him in, trying to tear his arms from the Saiyan's grasp and kicking out ineffectually. "No more punishment for me now that you can't use your gun?" Vegeta pulled his arms tighter, causing the other man to grunt painfully.

"I won't . . ." he struggled, "be stopped . . . so easily!" He ceased his kicking and jammed his feet into Vegeta's shins. There was a mechanical clicking sound, and the metal casings around the intruder's ankles and calves threw out two fiery blasts, immediately scorching Vegeta's bare legs.

With a surprised gasp, Vegeta's hold slackened and the intruder used the blast to propel himself upward to the sky, only stopping to turn around at a safe distance.

His shins raw and blistering, Vegeta took a moment to catch his breath, eyeing the other man with narrowed eyes. "So," he set a singed leg in a wider stance, "I see you've got some tricks stuffed up those ridiculous metal sleeves of yours."

Above him, the intruder floated atop the two jet streams from his legs, holding his stance warily. "I've used the most advanced knowledge of my people to come bring an end to you—a people you slaughtered, like so many others. I won't let you stop me," he raised his right arm, the whirring of its charge starting up again. "I won't let you deny my revenge!"

Vegeta steadied his legs as the blast came toward him.

"Now die, Saiyan!" the intruder shouted as the man below him was bathed in the light of the energy attack.

Vegeta batted it away with the back of his hand.

"W-what?" the other man stammered under his helmet as the beam rose up into the air and vanished in a pinpoint of light.

The corner of Vegeta's lip pulled upward in a wicked sneer. "You think you can best me with your petty devices? Fool," he showed his teeth. "You're sorely outclassed."

"No," the silver helmet shook from side to side in denial. "It's not possible. I won't lose. I can't lose!" he began charging up another attack.

Vegeta took his time listening for exactly the moment the blast would come. "You can't even fly properly without that ridiculous outfit for assistance," he drawled confidently, listening for the pitch to rise. "Well, why don't I show you," the gun neared its critical mass, "how a real fighter flies!"

The shot rang out through the air as it collided with the top of the Capsule ship, blasting up bits of metal. Even before the recoil on the blaster had taken effect, the intruder felt his sternum soundly crushed by a tight fist, and Vegeta sent the suited fighter upward like a shot with a swift upper cut to the solar plexus.

The intruder rose with alarming speed and watched the grounds of the Capsule Corp. housing compound grow smaller and smaller. As he flew, he heard rather than saw the dark blur of movement beside him, and he hardly had time to ready himself before he felt two clasped fists slam into his back, propelling him downward. He ploughed into the ground with a resounding impact that shook the rounded buildings of the compound.

Bulma cleared the dust from her eyes and was barely able to make out the edge of the man's strangely metal-cased boot sticking out from the crater in her front yard. The attacker was not moving, even as the dirt from his impact began to dissipate. She could see her mother peering out from the main building's window, her poodle cut curls trembling just above the sill. To her right, she could hear the scrambled shouts of the journalists on the other side of the wall. "I hope Nancy can help me come up with something to explain this," Bulma moaned as she heard several camera flashes from a few persistent paparazzi. "The last thing I need is—eek!"

Her complaints were cut off with a shriek when she saw the bottom of Vegeta's foot come sailing down from the sky into the centre of the crater, causing the Capsule Corp. grounds to tremble again. Bulma ducked behind her scant cover, clasping her hands over her head as a fresh shower of rocks and dust arose on impact. Coughing, she brushed the dirt from her hair and peered up back over the rock in front of her.

Vegeta stood in the crater, only visible to the tops of his bare shoulders. He was staring fixedly at the far edge that still held a swirling eddy of dust above the ground.

"I see those tin cans of yours also increase your speed," Bulma could hear the scowl in his voice despite his back being to her. As the clouds of dust settled, she squinted to make out the silhouette of the other fighter. Slightly bent and breathing hard, he held one hand to his chest, obviously injured.

"It won't be enough," Vegeta raised his hand at his opponent. In a flash of blue-white, a barrage of energy blasts shot toward the intruder.

With a grunt of effort, the helmeted figure raised his left arm in front of himself in defence, and the high-pitched whirring arose again. As the energy beams came closer, a flickering white disc emerged before his arm, and when Vegeta's attack struck, it scattered the shot around his body.

"Holy crap!" Bulma barely had time to duck before one of the ricochets incinerated the small palm tree in front of her. She heard the sounds of breaking concrete, falling rocks, and smouldering tree branches, all following the brief humming of a swift energy blast overhead as she tucked herself closer to her cover. When the commotion up above had stopped, she placed a hesitant hand on the top of the rock that served as her protection and pulled her eyes up enough to survey the damage.

The once immaculate lawn of Capsule Corp. was now pockmarked with smoking craters. Palm fronds littered the pathways, singed from their encounter with the searing energy attacks, and the stumps that remained of their sources had not fared much better. Half of Pansy Brief's prized flower garden was overturned, buried in bits of rock and soil, and through the window, Bulma could see her mother, blue in the face with fear, next to a half-melted hole in the front window, not two feet from her head.

Bulma clenched her fist, fury rising up. "Vegeta, you jerk!" she screamed over the top of her rock, "you almost wrecked my house and got my mother killed!"

The planter full of flowers across the lawn crumbled, and another burning palm leaf fell. Bulma heard no other response.

"V-Vegeta?" her glare switched to a concerned crease in her brows as she scanned the still smoking yard.

A hand arose out of the largest crater, shaking slightly as it raised a mass of dark spiky hair.

"Vegeta," Bulma took a breath. Then her face snapped back into anger. "Are you crazy? Watch where you're aiming!"

"Shut up," Vegeta's voice barked sharply as he raised himself up fully. His movements were slow, and Bulma immediately saw why. His left shoulder looked nearly cleaved in two at the top, a large gash running through it and dribbling blood onto the still raw flesh of his burn wound. "My aim was fine," he ground out. "The bastard deflected it."

Bulma was at a loss as she took in his injuries, burned skin over his shins and eye, as well as the chunk missing from his shoulder. "I—"

A laugh from the far side of the yard stopped her. "What's the matter, Saiyan? Can't take what you dish out?"

Vegeta snapped his eyes back to his opponent. The helmeted man stood, still catching his breath, but relatively unscathed from the blasts. The light that had shielded him flickered a few more times before he dropped his arm. With a few steps forward, his breathing seemed to calm.

Bulma gulped as he began heading toward them. Feeling her rising panic give way to self-preservation, she looked around herself for some manner of defence. "C'mon, anything," she muttered as she began digging through the frayed pockets of her purse. She could still hear the metal footsteps approaching when Vegeta let out a low snarl.

"There's more than one way to crack open a tin man," the Saiyan spat. Fists clenched, he lowered his stance, planting his feet. "If I can't blast you, then I'll have to crush you with my bare hands."

"Try your worst, monster," the helmeted enemy encouraged in an even tone. "You won't be coming out of this alive. I swear on the blood of my people."

With a cry from deep in his gut, Vegeta launched himself forward, streaking with blue energy toward the other man. Leaning into his charge, he flew nearly parallel to the ground and drew back his fist, black eyes snapping with ferocity.

Bulma felt rather than saw the blow Vegeta landed on the other man. The force of his fist boomed across the lawn, picking up small pieces of debris as the pressure wave flowed out from the place of impact and forced her to squint her eyes against the sudden wind it kicked up. When she was able to open her eyes fully again, she saw that the helmeted intruder had been propelled backward into the wall surrounding the compound, his body slightly embedded in the brickwork. Bulma almost raised a shout to celebrate, but was stopped when she observed how Vegeta's eyes had not moved from his opponent and how he still held his hands at the ready.

A piece of one of the bricks tumbled from the wall over the intruder's shoulders as they trembled slightly. From under the metal helmet, a mirthless, hollow chuckle reverberated, shaking his body as the man pulled himself free from the damaged masonry. "You're slipping, Vegeta," he dusted himself off almost absently. "I had expected there to be far more fight in you."

Vegeta's fist clenched as he seethed at the insult, but he made no verbal response. His breathing came out in heavy pants, laboured and strained from exertion, and his skin had grown slightly pale from the blood he had lost due to the gash on his shoulder.

As she watched the metal-clad attacker ready his gun again, Bulma began to search her purse in earnest. "Think, genius girl, think," she muttered to herself as her hands groped through the pockets.

"And to think, I had to fight for the privilege of being the one to take you out," the intruder went on, a sneer audible in his tone. "For what? A second-rate shadow of the monster I remember," the whirring sound from the casing on his arm reached shrill pitch. "But now . . . now you're just a monkey. And once I'm through with you," he aimed the gun at Vegeta, "there won't be anything left to remember." He fired.

With a painful lurch, Vegeta dived away from the blast aimed at his head, tumbling on the ground. As he attempted to rise, his left arm buckled slightly under his weight, and he remained halfway on the ground, propped up by a knee.

"How does it feel, monkey," the other man approached, the metal of his heels clicking on the ground, "to see how close the end is?"

Bulma stole a glance up from her rummaging to watch Vegeta take a shuddering breath as he raised his head. "It's not," he panted, "over yet."

The intruder was on the ground in an instant, his legs sideswiped by a swift kick from the Saiyan. Spinning with his momentum, Vegeta flipped up above his target and spiralled down, plunging his fist out in front of him.

It was buried up to his forearm in nothing but dirt. Before he could spot where his opponent had dodged, a lancing pain shot up his shoulder and neck as a metal foot crushed into his open wound. The Saiyan rolled to the other side of the crater, his body thumping heavily against the charred ground.

Bulma could barely tear her eyes away from the fight as she continued to dig her hand through her purse. "I've got to do something," she muttered. "There isn't going to be anything left if it goes on like this," her eyes widened when her fingers grazed something cool and metal in her purse. With a fortifying breath, she clasped her hand around the smooth cylinder.

Vegeta heaved his shoulders up, lifting himself by the outside wall of blasted rock. His panting had become aggravated into gasping coughs, and he had difficulty standing up to his full height. Doubled over slightly, his bloodshot eyes tracked the slowly approaching footsteps of the helmeted intruder. He gave another sputtering cough.

"What's this? Something to say?" the metal of the helmet resonated coldly. "Are you going to beg, monkey? Let's hear it, then."

Vegeta spat out a defiant mouthful of blood at the other man's feet.

"A filthy creature to the last," the metal cylinder on his wrist rose again and the high-pitched whine of the energy charge increased. "I'm going to enjoy this—and the whole universe will breathe a sigh of relief to be rid of you." He pointed his arm in front of him, and Vegeta's face grew paler as the light from the gun began to flicker to life.

"Get _off_ my property, you _creep_!"

A wall of flames suddenly spread between the two combatants, the heat billowing out with a force that caused the intruder to take a step back. His helmet glowed white-hot as he turned to view who had interrupted him from performing the execution.

Bulma moved her arms to her right to engulf the attacker more fully in the flames. One hand on her cigarette lighter and the other on her travel-sized hairspray, she pressed on the top of the aerosol can, releasing a steady stream that quickly ignited and surrounded the enemy. She ignored the violent lashing of her hair in her eyes as she shouted over the fire's roar. "How _dare_ you invade my home!" As the flames grew higher, her bravado increased. "You think you can just barge into my house," her eyes were snapping, "threaten my mother," she pushed down on the aerosol can harder, "destroy our front yard, and expect get away with it?"

Her voice was increasing in volume as her rant developed momentum. "Do you have _any_ idea how long it will take to repair this place?" she shouted, hardly noticing that the blaze was dying down. "Do you have any idea who—" the can of hairspray began to sputter, "I . . ." Bulma's face paled as the last of the hairspray ran out, leaving her with only the small flame of the cigarette lighter, ". . . am?" she finished meekly.

"I know you're a dead woman." The smoking shadow of the intruder turned his arm toward the heiress.

Bulma's eyes widened at the sight of the gun glowing with its charge aimed directly at her. "Should've thought that one through more," she swallowed nervously as her hands trembled, dropping the hairspray can with a clatter.

"This battle does not concern you," the light from the cylinder grew brighter and the sound increased in pitch. Bulma felt her knees lock, all her previous courage abandoned as her body froze in fear. Ice ran down from her spine to her feet as she stared into the energy that would soon vaporize her. The attacker tilted his head to look up at her from the bottom of the crater as the beam of light emerged and glinted off his dark visor. "Know your place, pest," he commanded flatly.

"Bad move," a battered hand clamped onto the end of the cylinder, snapping back the gunman's wrist. Vegeta stood beside the man, digging his fingers into the metal and forcing the other man's hand to twist painfully backward. "You should never allow yourself to get distracted from your target," his pained scowl broke into a feral grin as the charge of the gun built up to its maximum threshold.

In a blinding flash of white light, the end of the gun exploded, splitting down the centre and backfiring in clouds of black smoke.

With a howl, the intruder staggered backward from the blast, twitching from the recoil. The cylinder fell from his arm in cracked plates of metal, revealing skin that was peeled and bloodied, charred black in some patches and raw red in others. "M-my arm," he stuttered out lamely, unable to even hold the scorched appendage as the blistered flesh sizzled. "How . . . did you—it's . . . it's useless," his shock made his voice waver.

"Not completely," Vegeta grabbed him by the wrist, letting his hand sink into the sticky layers of torn-up skin and muscle. The other man screamed in anguish, only to have his cries called to a halt by a swift kick. Vegeta spun in the air, using the other man's arm to pull him into a roundhouse to the head, sending him skidding across the ground of the crater. The metal helmet rang like a bell around the intruder's ears before falling from his head into the dirt with a clang.

Bulma sat on the opposite edge of the crater, barely catching her breath from the explosion that very nearly had taken her head. With a trembling hand, she crawled to the edge, peering to the other side. Vegeta's back blocked her view of the now fallen attacker as he took slow, deliberate steps toward him. She could barely make out the low sounds of his speech, but all the words were caught on the wind, impossible to distinguish.

Vegeta's attention was solely on his enemy. Peering down as he stood before him, the prince took in his features. The rounded eyes of the man lying in front of him were almost a solid yellow, with no whites at all. His skin shone with a slight silver, patches of it looking almost like scales near his hairline, where a sheet of blue-black strands were slicked back, falling down past the small holes in the side of his head that served as ears. When Vegeta's gaze fell on the three slits below those holes, his eyes narrowed in recognition.

"Tritekian," Vegeta frowned. "Didn't think there were any of you left."

"You . . . saw to . . . that . . . didn't you?" the thin slits flapped open and shut as the alien tried to speak in shallow gasps. He stretched his good hand to reach for his helmet.

With a small kick, Vegeta knocked it just out of reach. "Having trouble, fish-face?" he crossed his arms imperiously. "How long until you choke in this atmosphere? Twenty minutes?" He rolled the helmet back under his foot, swivelling it tauntingly close to the fallen man's hand. "Answer my questions and I might let you breathe again. Who sent you here?"

With a wheeze, the Tritekian fluttered his gills. "Not . . . talking . . . won't su-surrender."

"Stubborn, aren't we?" Vegeta kicked up the helmet from his foot to his hand, tucking it under his elbow. "I'm not known for my patience. I suggest you answer before I decide to hurry you along to hell." Taking a step closer, Vegeta lifted the front of his foot over the man's injured arm.

The Tritekian's eyes widened as the sole of Vegeta's shoe came closer to the raw and blistered skin.

"Now let's try again," Vegeta's toe hovered about an inch from his wound. "How did you find me?"

"I . . . won't—"

The Saiyan lowered his foot.

The silver-scaled alien screamed, hardly able to catch his breath between the use of his vocal cords and his irregular, gulping breaths. "I . . . I spent a long time . . . looking for you," he rushed out as fast as he could.

Vegeta applied less pressure to the injured arm.

"I . . . couldn't find . . . at first . . ." his chest heaved at the effort it took to speak. "Power levels . . . followed them from . . . the scouter," his good arm pointed a shaky finger to the helmet under Vegeta's arm.

"So you went off in search of the highest one you could find," Vegeta put a hand to his hip. "So tell me who sent—" he stopped when he heard more sputtering coming from his captive.

The gulping gasps shook the aquatic alien's body, making his shoulders tremble as his panting became a faint chuckle.

"Something amusing?" Vegeta's tone turned icy and he ground his foot into the other man's arm.

The Tritekian grimaced, sucking in air sharply through his teeth with the pain, but his weak laughter did not stop. "I . . . searched . . . for the highest . . . but . . ." his yellow eyes held a defiant glint, "wasn't . . . wasn't you," he broke off into a few more weak laughs. "Imagine . . . my . . . surprise . . ."

"Enough," Vegeta spat sharply. "Tell me who sent you."

"Found another . . . Saiyan . . . low class . . ." the chuckles continued, "and . . . he was . . . even _debating_ . . . your ability . . . with . . . with a Namek . . ."

"I said enough!" Vegeta slammed his heel down on the helpless man's arm, grinding it into the dirt.

Writhing in pain, the Tritekian cried out in bursts, giving a shout in-between each hastily swallowed breath.

"Who sent you, you sad excuse for a guppy?" Vegeta snarled. "There's no way a Tritek survivor could have the funds to make it all the way out here. Who are you working for?"

"You . . . really think I'd . . . tell?" the scales around his lips were turning blue. "You . . . you killed . . . my people, my . . . my father . . ."

"Take a number," Vegeta twisted his foot again, boring into the man's arm. "You really think that matters to me?"

"I . . . am my . . . father's son and . . . I won't dishonour . . ."

"I won't ask again. Who sent you here?"

"My . . . last words . . . won't be a surrender . . ."

Vegeta raised a hand, palm forward with his thumb tucked in. As the his energy began to form, shining down on the broken body below, the Tritekian's pained face spread into a small grin.

"There will . . . be more after . . . me . . ."

The Big Bang Attack that ensued flashed brightly enough in the crater to make Bulma cover her eyes. When she was able to open them again, there was nothing left at Vegeta's feet but a black smudge in the ground, the only sign that anything had been there at all the helmet under the Saiyan's arm, and the cracked metal casing of his gun a few paces away.

"W-what," Bulma tried to regain her voice and her composure, "the hell was _that_?"

As if just noticing her, Vegeta turned around at the sound of her voice. "Nothing. A pest that crawled out of the woodwork," he scowled. "I exterminated it."

"Don't give me that," Bulma's anger was back. "That guy tore up my yard, almost destroyed my house, almost killed _me_," she stood up, her fists clenching, "and you're trying to tell me it's nothing?"

There was a rumble from above and a few heavy drops fell from the sky. A small shower started, and the rainwater began to collect in the craters around the compound. The ashy remnants near Vegeta's feet began to fade as the water dissolved it into to the dirt. "The problem is solved, woman," Vegeta bent his knees to fly off.

"Oh, no you don't!" Bulma slid down the side of the crater and rushed to grab his arm. "You're not going anywhere a camera can see you," she gave a pointed look toward the front gate. "I've got enough of a mess on my hands as it is. Get inside before you cause any more damage."

Vegeta pulled his hand away from hers roughly. "Don't give me orders," he barked.

Bulma had to cross her arms to cover how badly her hands were shaking. "Look," she forced her tone down a notch, "just go inside to take care of your injuries. I've got to run some damage control."

The rain began falling harder around them. Droplets ran down Vegeta's bare neck and shoulders, stinging as they slid into the deep gash on his left. He looked at her harshly through the falling streams, hardly blinking as some slid over his eyes and dripped off his nose.

Bulma shivered again, looking at what was left of her front yard. The remaining clumps of grass became sodden in the rain, and the upturned rocks and dirt darkened to mud. The water made tinny percussive sounds against the torn-up remains of the Capsule 3 ship, still slanted on the side of the broken support strut. Her warm, yellow house had dark burn marks in it, and some of the stucco and concrete had crumbled off the sides. She pulled a few wet curls behind her ear to keep them from her eyes. "Please," she asked softly, "I'll take care of things out here." She turned her gaze on the man beside her. "And I know you don't need any help taking care of your injuries yourself," she gave a weak smile.

Vegeta stiffened a little. "I don't," he agreed curtly before turning on his heel and setting off toward the yellow capsule house.

Bulma sighed as she watched him go, just a little impressed at how he managed to walk with unfaltering and steadfast steps, despite the injuries that had been so debilitating just a few moments ago. Turning her attention to the situation at hand, she heard a few scattered shouts beyond the tinted gate, and knew she would have to make some sort of statement to the press about what they had heard happening on the other side. A few more bricks crumbled from the far wall, and she heard the capsule ship groan again as the rain weighed it down on its weakened supports. "What a disaster," she groaned.

"Oh my," a low voice came from behind her. Bulma whirled to see her father coming out of one of the domed auxiliary labs, stroking his moustache. He took a sip of his coffee and adjusted his glasses. "What did I miss?"

* * *

><p>AN: Wow, this one took me forever to write—hope it was worth it for you guys. I know some people complain about DBZ's drawn-out fight scenes and all, but to me, that's part of the charm of the series—I tend to think Kai sucks out all the suspense. Hopefully I'll improve in my action writing and be able to bust out scenes like this when they come up a lot faster in the future.<p>

I did not make up Tritek—it's a planet Nappa mentions when he plants the Saibamen (ep. 23). I did, however, make up Tritekian features. I've broken the name "Tritek" into two puns, one on Triton—thus, fishy-ness—and the other on "tech," so advanced technology. I'm sure that's not what it really is, but I kind of like it, and I wasn't going to go into a pun on "tri" as 3 because that's Tien's territory. I've heard it pronounced Tradek and Tritek (with a short 'i,' as in "hit"), but I like Tritek better, so that's what I'm going with.

I've based most of the fighting in this chapter on Vegeta's fight against Recoome (ep. 65) and a wee smidgen from the beginning of his fight against fat Buu—mostly that bitchin' spiral kick he gives to the face (ep. 235), as well as some of my own thoughts. Hopefully it seemed believable enough that Vegeta would have some trouble against the guy since he had already been training and injured himself. Also, that random blip Piccolo sensed in chapter 3? Yeah, now it makes sense.

Well, 5 chapters down, and the body count is already at 2. A promising start?


	6. What Remains

CHAPTER 6 – What Remains (?)

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Honestly, if I were getting paid for this, I would definitely be more motivated to update faster.

* * *

><p>"Eat up, Gohan," Chichi smiled cheerfully to her boy as she set down a bowl of rice next to his miso soup.<p>

"Thanks, Mom," Gohan waited to lift his chopsticks until his mother sat down. Beside her, his father was halfway through the first course before she took her seat with a smile. "You're happy this morning," the boy pointed out.

Goku shovelled the last of his rice into his mouth before moving on to his egg.

"Why shouldn't I be?" Chichi beamed at him as she raised a demure amount of rice to her lips. "I'm just happy to have breakfast as a family, that's all."

Egg inhaled, Goku got started on his soup.

"Oh," Gohan proceeded to follow his father's example and tuck in to his meal. "I gueff tha's nife fur all ov uf."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Chichi responded absently to her son.

With a long exhale, Goku set down his bowl and flicked a few fish into his mouth.

Gohan swallowed. "Yes, Mom."

"Well, if you must know," Chichi set her chopsticks down, "I'm _especially_ happy this morning."

Goku helped himself to some more rice.

Gohan made a careful effort to wait until he finished his mouthful before speaking. "Why's that?"

"Well, today we're going to be starting you on that new calculus textbook, and you won't be tempted to daydream out the window this time."

Gohan blushed. "I don't . . . daydream," he hesitated. "I just, well . . . sometimes I need to . . . refocus my eyes a little . . ."

"Oh, hush," Chichi waved his excuse aside. "You know as well as I do that your father's training with that Piccolo," her tone steeled a bit on the name, "is distracting you when you work. It can't be helped, I suppose," she sighed, "since you can feel them fight even when you can't see them—but not today!"

"Huh? What's going on today?" Gohan looked from his mother's contented smile to his father, who had polished off his main meal and was attempting to drag over half the dumplings from the centre of the table to his plate. "Dad?"

Caught, Goku released all but three of the warm rice pastries. "Uh, well," he smiled sheepishly. "We got a call from Bulma last night, and she wants me to go over for a little while."

"Did something happen?" Gohan looked a little alarmed. "I know we both felt Vegeta's energy spike yesterday, but I thought he was just increasing his training. What's up, Dad?" his words rushed out. "Do we have to fight someone again?"

"Mmmph," Goku tried to start his answer with a dumpling in his mouth, earning him a glare from his wife.

He forcibly gulped it down under her gaze. "It's nothing like that," he held up his hands in a placating gesture, both to his wife and to his son. "Just something she wants me to check out. It's probably nothing, but she said she couldn't be there to do it—some kind of business meeting."

"Oh," Gohan almost looked disappointed.

"Hey," Goku slung an arm over his son's shoulders, "don't worry about it. I won't be gone all day—it won't interfere with our training. Besides, I can always just move our afternoon training closer to Capsule Corp. so I can do both at once."

"But not until the afternoon, right?" Chichi spoke in a deceptively calm voice. "Goku, remember you promised to split the time."

"Right, right," Goku agreed quickly. "I'll go on my own for the morning, Gohan, and when your mother lets you out of your lessons, we can meet up. How does that sound?"

"Okay," the boy picked at his food a little.

"What's wrong, Gohan?" his mother looked at his idle chopsticks with concern.

"Oh, nothing," Gohan sighed, putting his head in one hand. "I just . . . Mom, does it have to be the calculus book?"

"But I thought you liked the new book series I put you on."

"Well, the history and the anthropology stuff was okay, but . . ." he tried to make himself smaller under his mother's gaze. ". . . but I just . . . I don't really . . ." his voice trailed hesitantly, "don't really like math."

Chichi crossed her arms adamantly. "Gohan, you have to catch up on these things, and math is where you're farthest behind."

"Yeah, I know but . . ."

"And no distractions today," Chichi pressed. "You're going to make it through this lesson in record time."

Gohan looked a little deflated. "Yes, Mom."

"And then you'll be caught up enough to work on advanced classes—"

"Aww, come on, Chichi," Goku licked his fingers from the last dumpling. "Go easy on him a little."

"—advanced classes," she continued, "where you can spend your time," she looked at the slumped shoulders of her little boy, "studying . . . what . . . you . . ." she felt her heart melting a little at her son's pout, "what you want," she relented.

Gohan's eyes brightened. "Really?"

"Yes," Chichi reluctantly agreed, "but if it's stuff like anthropology and history you want to study, they'd better be the most advanced courses you can manage. I won't have you wasting the time you have here. We're going to make sure you get into the best schools possible, and that won't happen unless you have top scores in all your subjects—_all_ of them. "

"Right, Mom," Gohan perked up a little.

"And you'll have to be that much better in the subjects that you do want to pursue—"

"Well," Goku stood up, "I'd better be on my way."

"—Goodbye, Goku—so when you apply to the top schools you can get scholarships," Chichi waved her husband off without missing a beat of her lecture. "We can't just buy our way in like those city kids do. You're going to have to work for it, and if you want to do something that isn't in the sciences, you'll have to be at the top of the class in order to get a good job anywhere afterward—"

Goku gave Gohan's shoulder a supportive squeeze before putting two fingers to his head and vanishing out of earshot of his wife's litany of scholarly pursuits and plans.

* * *

><p>He hissed in a short breath when the fabric pressed against the gash on his shoulder. Even through the bandage, the area was tender, and Vegeta found it difficult to move his stiff muscles carefully enough to avoid irritating his injuries further as he dressed. The dark material of his bodysuit stuck uncomfortably to the burn wounds on his shins and his left arm, and the throbbing in his shoulder had hardly diminished since yesterday. He growled irritably and shoved his other arm in the sleeve of the suit before walking with a few laboured steps to the other side of the room, where the rest of his armour lay. Reaching down to pick it up, he stopped when a glint of light caught his eye.<p>

The morning sunlight broke through some of the remaining cloud cover from the window and shone off the silvery helmet, still at the foot of his bed where he had left it the night before. As Vegeta turned it over in his hands, his fingers traced over the large dent beside the dark glass of the visor, feeling the place where his foot had crushed into the other alien's skull.

"_There will . . . be more after . . . me . . ._"

His scowl deepened at the thought of the Tritekian's wheezing breaths and pale, mirthless smile. _I won't be hunted_, he thought_. Certainly not by trash like that—so weak they can't even be sensed_. He turned the helmet over once more, examining the base.

"_I won't ask again. Who sent you here?_"

"_My . . . last words . . . won't be a surrender . . ._"

_Someone had to send him. There's no way he could have survived this long and come all the way out here without help_, his dark eyes bored into the helmet, as if it held the answers. _But I made sure to eradicate all the Frieza bases I found when I was in space looking for Kakarrot. I'm sure of it._

"_And to think, I had to fight for the privilege of being the one to take you out_."

_No, he couldn't have been working alone. And if isn't someone under Frieza . . . _his fingers touched a button beside the visor, and a few numbers flashed to life.

"_Power levels . . . followed them from . . . the scouter_."

_If the scouter could track where I was, there should also be a relay back to his ship_, Vegeta surmised, continuing his examination of the base of the helmet. He caught a small latch, and a section below the visor clicked and fell into his open hand, detached. He glanced at it carefully, appraising it and deciphering its function before tossing it aside._ I won't need the breathing apparatus. All that matters is the scouter_. He lifted the helmet over his head, forcing his hair uncomfortably inside.

_What a ridiculous design. If the scouter weren't wired into it, I'd rip it out and blast this tin can_, he clenched his teeth in distaste before pressing the button on the side of the dark visor again. After a few moments of clicking and the appearance of several sets of unknown characters flickering in front of his eyes, he stopped. _There_, he turned his head, reading the figures on the screen projected through the visor. He focused his vision beyond the digitized characters and out the window, gazing toward the hazy form of the central mountains.

Removing the helmet, he breathed a little better as his hair sprang up off his neck. Still keeping his eyes focused on the distant mountains, their caps buried in last night's storm clouds, he clenched a fist. _That's where I'll find my answers_.

He turned his head back to the foot of his bed to pick up his armour and shrugged it painfully over his head with his injured shoulder. Taking a deep breath to ease the pain of the armour's added pressure over the wounds to his torso, he raised a hand to adjust the part over his bandaged gash. Absently, his hand grazed lower, and caught on the chipped opening to the left of his heart.

A sinking feeling dropped to the pit of his stomach at the contact, and he closed his eyes, remembering. He swallowed, forcing it down. _I won't be hunted_, he repeated to himself. _I won't_.

* * *

><p>"Oh, I just feel so awful about the whole thing," Mrs. Brief had to take a step back from her skillet of eggs and bacon to wipe her eyes with her handkerchief.<p>

"There, there, dear," Dr. Brief put a comforting hand to her shoulder, wincing a little as his wife noisily blew her nose. "You didn't mean any harm by it. We just have to be more careful about who we let in for tea and cookies now."

"I-I had no idea," she sniffled, "no idea that she was really a reporter. Oh," she moaned, grinding her face into her husband's chest, "I've gone and made a mess of everything."

"Now, honey," Dr. Brief hesitantly patted her back, a little uncomfortable at the wetness seeping through his shirt, "I know when I was serving as president we didn't have these sorts of problems, but Bulma's much more . . . photogenic. There'll be a lot more people coming around asking questions. We'll have to get used to keeping a few secrets now."

"But I'm _terrible_ at keeping secrets!" Mrs. Brief wailed.

Her husband gave a small sigh before picking up his wife's chin in his hand, gently raising her puffy eyes to his. "I know, dear, and I love you for it, just the same. But let's keep some of these things in the family from now on, all right?"

Mrs. Brief dabbed at the tears in her eyes again with her handkerchief before offering up a small smile to her husband. "All right," she agreed.

"Good," Dr. Brief nodded. "Now, better keep an eye on those eggs before they burn," he redirected the blonde's attention to her skillet.

"Oh dear!" she fluttered over to her spatula and began stirring the sizzling contents.

Dr. Brief gave a small smile at his wife before he took a seat at the kitchen table, sorting through the post for the day with his coffee. Several corporate dossiers were piled atop lab reports and finance charges, all fresh from the hand of the night-shift intern. The doctor began sifting through the stack, his moustache rustling as he determined the urgency of each one.

"Honey," his wife addressed him, recovering from her sniffles as she placed the salvaged eggs and bacon on a plate. "Don't you think . . . we should hold some sort of . . . memorial service? She was such a charming girl." She set the plate down in front of him.

Dr. Brief looked up from the stack of letters, his eyes bright with warmth for the ceaselessly compassionate woman in front of him. "Of course we can, dear," he took her hand in his. "I'll do my best to find the next of kin—but we'll have to keep it small."

"More secrets?"

Rubbing his thumb along her small hand, Dr. Brief gave a small sigh. "I'm afraid so."

The pair of them only looked up when they heard another chair scrape slightly across the floor.

"Oh, good morning, Vegeta," Mrs. Brief was the first to address the surly-looking Saiyan. "Would you like some breakfast?"

Vegeta merely gave a nod as he took his seat, folding his arms over his chest.

Dr. Brief took a sip of coffee as his wife bustled over to the stovetop, appraising the man in front of him and taking particular note of his attire. "Heading out today, son?"

A brow twitched at the familiar term. Another nod.

"Probably for the best. With all that happened yesterday, it'll take me a couple days to get the ship back to standing upright, let alone get the gravity simulator online again." The older man went back to sifting through the mail after another sip of coffee. "I hope it won't affect your training too much."

"I've made adjustments to my regimen," Vegeta responded neutrally. "I'll be continuing my training elsewhere."

"Oh? Out and about then? Are you going to try different climates? I hear acclimation training is a good workout," Dr. Brief did not look up from his sorting.

"I hope you don't plan on training anywhere too cold," Mrs. Brief tilted her head at the Saiyan from her place in front of the stove. "At least not in that outfit. It's full of holes," she pointed out after serving up another plate and placing it before him. "You might catch cold."

Vegeta rolled his eyes as he picked up his fork and began his meal.

"I believe that's part of the idea," Dr. Brief began examining a letter, shifting his glasses and holding it at varying distances to read it better. "You're supposed to face the elements, dear—get the body toughened up to them and such. Of course, there are differing opinions on whether or not it's all that successful, but I imagine testing it out for a few days couldn't hurt anything."

"If you say so," Mrs. Brief set out the rest of the breakfast on the table and poured herself some tea. "But I still think he needs some decent clothes if he's going to be running off around the planet." She sat down beside her husband, cup in hand. "What's that you've got there?" she stirred it some.

"I believe," he smiled a little, raising the corners of his moustache, "this is that stipend I promised you, Vegeta," he handed the letter across the table to the Saiyan.

Vegeta continued to eat while the letter hovered in front of him.

"For the work you did on the droids and the lining of the gravity chamber," the doctor encouraged.

Vegeta barely looked up from his meal at the envelope. "Keep it," he grumbled.

"Now, I couldn't do that. You've earned it," Dr. Brief waved it a little in his direction.

"I said keep it," he glared. "Use it to make repairs, replenish your food sources, whatever. I don't want it."

"Use it for repairs?" the doctor blinked at him, confused. "Why on earth would I use your stipend to make repairs when you've already done so much to help us?"

Vegeta paused his eating.

"Oh, I told him all about it, sweetie," Mrs. Brief explained at the puzzled look the Saiyan was giving. "You know, how you saved us from that horrible man when he attacked. I saw the whole thing from the window. Oh, you were so heroic!"

He looked at her as though she had grown two heads. "I didn't—I'm not—"

"Nonsense!" she beamed at him. "Why, if it weren't for you, my beautiful little girl could've been killed! We should get you a medal to wear for what you've done."

"What is this ridiculous obsession you have with what I wear?" a vein began to twitch in Vegeta's forehead.

"I was only—"

"Enough," Vegeta began to rub his temple in irritation. "Just—just go out and buy clothes with it if it's so much of a concern. I don't care."

A gleam came to the woman's eye. "You mean it?" she smiled eagerly.

Vegeta caught on quickly. With a pointed look he leaned forward on his elbow, his face menacing over the small pot of sugar on the centre of the table. "Absolutely no pinks," he ticked it off on his finger, "purples, or patterns. Got it?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Mrs. Brief maintained her grin despite his threatening glare. "I understand. Only classic colours for you."

"Good, it's settled then," Dr. Brief slid the letter toward the Saiyan with a smile. "We'll need you to sign it first, and then I'll see to the rest. It might take a bit of time to open up an account for you, but once that happens, I'll make sure that all the rest of these cheques get deposited directly." He handed the younger man a pen.

Vegeta ripped open the top of the envelope with a swift flick of his finger, pulling out the blue water-marked paper and scanning over it with vague attention. His eyes narrowed slightly when they passed over a portion of it that informed him a percentage of the money was to go to the planet's pitiful government, but he resignedly flipped over the document and scratched out a strange series of characters that were to serve as his signature.

"Oh, you won't regret it," Mrs. Brief bubbled, snatching the paper as soon as the pen in Vegeta's hand stopped moving. "And I'll make sure to get you clothes for all types of weather for your training."

Vegeta did not acknowledge her as he polished off the rest of his breakfast. With his plate cleaned, he stood up brusquely and headed for the door.

"And don't worry about your measurements, Vegeta," Mrs. Brief called after him with a flirtatious wink. "I took good notes when you were in that hospital bed!"

Vegeta only paused at the door to give an involuntary shudder before proceeding outside.

The door opened to reveal a hazy sky, the tall, looming rainclouds having been pushed from the city overnight. The craters from yesterday's battle were filled with a few inches of muddy water, and the broken stumps of the decorative palm trees looked like soggy matchsticks. The wind ruffled his hair slightly as he exited, and he only made it a few steps before his departure was interrupted again.

The air suddenly depressed in front of him and he felt a large power level appear. Snarling, Vegeta crouched into a ready stance, raising a hand for an energy blast. Orange and blue wavered in his vision half a second before he heard it.

"Hey, Vegeta!" Goku materialised with a wave. "Woah, calm down," he blinked as he took in the other Saiyan's stance. "It's only me!"

The energy building in front of his hand only increased in intensity. "I know that, fool," Vegeta's tone sounded on edge. "What are you doing here, Kakarrot?"

"Hey, don't be that way," Goku tried to peer over the outstretched hand in front of him, ignoring the deadly energy accumulating there and giving a winning grin. "Bulma invited me here."

"Is that Goku I hear?" Dr. Brief's voice echoed out the door from the kitchen, followed by a few quick footsteps. "Goku!" he called out as he squeezed past Vegeta in the doorway, nudging him and causing the Saiyan to drop his arm and the half-formed blast to dissipate. "You made it! Good—I take it Bulma filled you in?"

Goku put a hand behind his head, a little embarrassed. "Well, sort of, but some of it didn't really make sense. She can get a little screechy when she's stressed."

"Well, come in then," the doctor put a hand on the taller man's shoulder, guiding him inside. "I'll explain it to you—have you eaten yet?"

"Well, I did have breakfast, but you know me," Goku smiled, "I can always—hey, where are you going, Vegeta?" he called after the other fighter as he shot off to the sky in a blue streak of light.

Vegeta managed to make it only a few thousand feet away before a familiar orange blur appeared in front of him. He stopped mere inches from crashing into Goku, scowling ferociously.

"Let me pass, Kakarrot."

"Hey," Goku put up his hands in front of his chest, both attempting to halt and to mollify, "I may not really know what's going on, but from what Bulma told me, it'd be better if we stayed here in case any more attacks happen. Then we could defend the place together, don't you think?"

"Idiot," a snarl was beginning to emerge from Vegeta's throat, "This is not your affair—and I could care less what happens to this pathetic place." He clenched his fists at the ready.

"Affair?" the Earth-bred Saiyan blinked at the choice of words. "Well, Bulma called me about it, so I guess it kind of is my business now," Goku tried to explain, "and from what she said, it looked like you defended her house pretty well." His tone seemed to linger, drawing out the last of his sentence suggestively. "You saved her when she was in tro—"

"The fool let his guard down—I acted on the opportunity," Vegeta cut him off. "What that woman does to get herself killed isn't my problem. Now, I suggest you let me pass," he began to power up, bristling blue spikes of energy around him, "unless you're prepared to finish what you start."

"Vegeta, we shouldn't be—" Goku's attention was caught by a shout from below. Glancing away, he saw Dr. Brief hailing him from the ground, waving his hand to beckon him downward. Before he could bring his eyes back to the fighter before him, he was spun to the side by a bright blue blur, and the only other glimpse of Vegeta he was able to catch was the contrail he left across the distant sky.

"Goku!" he heard Dr. Brief call him down. "Just let him go. When he gets like that, things tend to get broken—and I've already got my work cut out for me," the older man indicated the remains of the Capsule Corp. grounds.

From his vantage point, Goku could clearly make out the extensive burn tracks and craters indicative of a barrage of energy blasts scarring the normally pristine lawn, as well as the lopsided form of the once perfectly spherical Capsule 3 ship. He descended to the ground, giving another concerned glance at the damage before facing the doctor.

"Maybe you should start explaining from the beginning," Goku scratched his head.

* * *

><p>"I don't care if you have to buy their whole damn company and sell it back to them," Bulma shouted at the intercom, "don't let them run the story until everyone's at the resort!" She gripped the control column of her plane more tightly.<p>

"Y-yes, Miss Brief," Nancy's meek voice buzzed in.

Bulma pinched the bridge of her nose. "Look, Nancy, I know we can't keep them from printing the story altogether without breaking the law, but we need to make sure that we minimize the damage. If you could just get them to print it in the middle of the paper so that it's not that big a deal, I'll take care of the rest. Once I get all the big wigs out in the mountains and away from any cell or wireless service, it won't matter all that much."

"Right," came Nancy's response. "The ETA of the last company official on this retreat is a few hours from now. I'll try to push back the story's release until tomorrow."

"Good. And no front page headlines—I don't care how many pay-offs we have to do to keep this quiet. We can't afford to show any weakness right now—especially with . . . um, our experiments. Make them push it back to the middle of the entertainment section or something."

"I'll do my best, ma'am."

"Thank you, Nancy," Bulma switched off the intercom. Easing up on the throttle, Bulma took a deep breath as her plane flashed past the central mountains, heading north. The ground below echoed with the sonic boom from her passing, and the clouds beside her whisked by in a blur of white streaks.

_I hope calling Goku was the right thing to do. There's just only so much I can do on my own . . ._ she thought as she passed a lumpy cumulonimbus that looked remarkably like a familiar wild, spiky hairstyle. As she adjusted her altitude in the most recent prototype for her company's new alloy, Bulma let her thoughts wander back to the day before, when the dirt and ash had clung to her skin as she watched Vegeta's retreating form stalwartly march into her house, drenched by the pouring rain that struck a tinny sound against the helmet he had been carrying under his arm.

Her eyes flicked quickly from the sky ahead of her to her left, where a medium-sized box sat, a small gleam of metal shining out from the open top.

"Hmph," a small smile spread across her lips. "Vegeta's not the only one who picked up a souvenir—and once I figure out how this thing works," her eyes turned steely, "I won't be caught off-guard like that again."

She lowered the plane through the cloud cover, now weaving around the mountain peaks. The ground below looked much like her surroundings had above the clouds—blankets of white over rising mounds as far as the eye could see. As she rounded another mountain, she caught sight of a few small specks down in the foothills. Coming closer, she could just make out the narrow streets between the buildings of Sage City as she flew overhead, and when she turned the plane sharply upward, she found her target: a large building complex perched atop one of the peaks, a few miles above.

"Perfect," she smiled, making her way to the brown cabin-like complex, "Sage City Mountain Resort, right on time." Levelling her plane, she slowed to a halt in front of the rustic building, hovering over the landing area as the engine idled to put on her jacket and make sure her boots were snug.

"Come on, you," she addressed the contents of her box like an old friend, "into the capsule with the rest of the contraband." Pressing a button on the side of the box, she waited for the smoke to clear before placing the neat little pill-shaped container into her case with the others. With a quick breath and a hand through her hair to remove it from her scarf, she stepped out of the car.

"Miss Brief!"

"I'm not here two seconds and already it's starting," she muttered.

"Oh thank goodness you're all right!" a familiar man with unkempt hair and narrow glasses was running in her direction, almost tripping over himself in the two feet of snow. He came up to her, his thin frame panting with the exertion. "I heard about the accident at your home compound. A laser malfunction—how awful! I hope it doesn't—"

"Shh! Mark, keep it down!" Bulma slapped a hand over the man's mouth. "Part of the point of this retreat is to keep that information in-house, okay?"

Mark nodded rapidly before extricating himself from her hand. "Right, right," he gave her an 'okay' sign. "Got it. How was your trip? Was the prototype working all right?"

"Still not as fast as I'd like," she pushed the encapsulation button on the side, picking it up after the smoke cleared. "Once I fix it up with a lighter skeleton, though, it should run fine," Bulma started walking toward the large wooden manor, indicating he should follow.

The snow got easier to walk in once they made it to the cleared paths. They walked past the frost-topped hedges up to the manor-style hotel. The many rooms of the complex were all connected under a series of peaked roofs, all topped with fresh snow and dripping with icicles. The exterior walls were made up of a series of stacked logs interrupted by frosted windows that gave off a warm, golden glow, even in the late morning sun. They came up to the heavy front doors and entered after tapping the snow off of their boots.

"Well, I just hope that the negotiations here go smoothly then," Mark trailed behind her as she made her way into the warm lobby. "Wright Materials has definitely got to be the most advanced in synthetics."

Bulma folded her arms smugly. "Not for long," she murmured, ringing the bell for service. They stood under an antler chandelier that appeared to spread from one side of the ceiling to the other, branching out with an impressive number of rustic lamps. The room had hardwood floors that somehow managed to appear aged without creaking under their feet, and the décor, though somewhat reminiscent of Daniel Boone, managed to be restrained enough to appear tasteful and even elegant in its own way.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," a pleasant older woman appeared behind the counter. "Oh my, Miss Brief," she blinked in surprise. "You're here early."

"Just checking in to make sure everything's all set up for the company retreat," Bulma smiled.

"Well, the rooms are all booked for tonight, tomorrow, and the following morning for both your company and Wright Materials' guests. We've also reserved the Great Hall for your events. Tonight is the icebreaker cocktail party, I believe."

"Right. What time will the hall be ready?"

"Oh, about seven."

"Great," the blue-haired heiress grinned. "I think I'll see my room and wait until then."

"Oh, but are you sure you don't want to check out the sauna or the spa to relax?" the concierge handed her the key to her room. "Or you could take a few slopes while you're waiting—best skiing outside of the northern capital."

"No, I think I just need a rest first. I might check those out later."

"You're crazy," Mark set down his ID in front of the elderly woman to collect his own key. "I know that first thing I want in this cold weather is a toasty seat in the sauna."

"There'll be plenty time for everything," Bulma tucked her key in her pocket with a smile. "Tell me, though," she leaned over the counter a little toward the concierge. "Is this place still famous for being isolated from all wireless and cell signals?"

"Oh yes," the woman nodded her head, her steel-grey bun bobbing. "We pride ourselves on being a real getaway. No pesky calls, no nosy e-mails, nothing to interrupt your vacation. It doesn't get us that many customers, but the ones who do come say they love the peace and quiet it gives 'em."

"That's exactly what I want to hear," Bulma tapped the countertop once happily before turning to her head scientist. "Come on, Mark. Let's go check out the digs. Then you can sweat your butt off in the sauna."

"It's just up the stairs and to your right," the woman at the counter called cheerily at the two as they headed off.

"It's not really fair, you know," Mark pouted a little when they made it to the top of the lacquered pine stairs. "You've got the new prototype phone for the demonstration while the rest of us have to sit here without any contact with the outside world at all."

"That's the whole point, remember?" Bulma reminded him as they headed down the hall. "In order for the demonstration to work, we need everyone to realise just how hard it is to get a signal here. It'll just be a few days—you can live without cell service and the Internet for that long, can't you?"

"That's like telling me to live without air!"

"Oh really?" Bulma rolled her eyes. "Besides work, what else do you do on your smart phone, Mark? Words with Friends? Angry Birds?"

Mark muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'Facebook,' but wisely chose not to press the issue too loudly.

"It'll do you good," she insisted, unlocking the door to her suite. "Besides, there's tons of stuff for us to do anyway. We've got the icebreaker tonight, then tomorrow morning is the demonstration."

"I know," Mark sighed. "Then in the evening it's the casino night and the next morning is the big negotiation."

"Right," Bulma nodded as she pushed open the door. "And in-between you can keep yourself busy on the slopes or in the sauna. Just relax a little! Take a vacation for goodness' sake. You're too high-strung."

"I'll try," Mark slumped his shoulders as he headed down the hall. "At least it's only three days instead of four like you planned," Bulma caught the tail end of his muttering as she closed the door to her room.

* * *

><p>"So let me get this straight," Goku scratched his head again, "the attack yesterday was from a man with rockets in his shoes, and he attacked Vegeta because of the number nine?"<p>

"Well, I didn't catch everything, but that's what it sounded like to me," Mrs. Brief nodded across the kitchen table from him.

"And this rocket-man killed a high school student who was at your house for an interview?"

"Not exactly," Dr. Brief took another sip of coffee while fiddling with a small laptop. "Bulma said she runs—ran a news blog, so whatever story she gave about being a high school student was probably false. She was a reporter." He turned the laptop toward the fighter so he could see the screen, which displayed a rather incriminating headline. "See?"

"_Bulma Brief Harbours Mass-Murdering Alien_," Goku read aloud. "Do you think that's why the rocket-guy attacked? Maybe he was from one of the cities that was destroyed when Vegeta first came here."

"Well, from what Bulma and her mother described, I highly doubt any of that technology he used came from around here," the doctor went back to work, typing away at the laptop. "No, it sounds to me like we're dealing with another alien—and I doubt that aliens have much time to surf the net or read blog articles."

"I guess not," Goku scratched his chin, "but how did he find out where Vegeta was?"

"I'd imagine the technology he had on him had something to do with that—but Vegeta didn't leave much of it behind once he was done with him. There wasn't much of anything left behind, come to think of it . . ."

"Oh," Mrs. Brief chimed in, "but he did have that shiny helmet—I saw him take it up to his room last night."

Goku's brows furrowed a little. "Then Vegeta probably knows something we don't and went to take care of this himself." He sent out a small sweep of energy to probe for power levels, and his brow twitched a little lower. "And he's suppressing his power, so I can't find him." He focused his attention across the kitchen table again. "What about Bulma, Dr. Brief? She said she couldn't be here because of a business meeting. When will she be back?"

"She'll be gone for the next couple of days," the older man continued to stare intently at his work on the laptop. "She managed to convince the press that what happened here was just an accident—an experiment gone wrong, you know—but she's got some sort of big negotiation in mind and had to get the corporate heads out of the city. This whole mess is just bad news all around."

"Yeah, I guess it would be bad for business," Goku put a hand to his chin in thought.

"Well, I know that Bulma sent you over here just in case something else happens, but I really don't see what you might be able to do now," Dr. Brief shifted his glasses at Goku, "unless you'd like to help me fill in the holes in the lawn."

"Well, I guess I could do that—but only until noon; I promised Gohan I'd train with him—and Piccolo too, for that matter," Goku responded, "but we'll move our training sessions closer so we can keep watch—just in case anything ha—"

"Oh! I have an idea!" Mrs. Brief bounced up suddenly, startling the two men. "You can find the dragonballs for us and wish that poor girl back to life!"

"Huh?" Goku gaped in surprise at the sudden interruption. "Oh, that reporter. That might take a while," Goku eased himself back out of the shock of seeing Mrs. Brief with an idea. "But I could try."

"Oh would you?" the blonde smiled at him. "You're such a dear, Goku."

"Of course," he smiled. "It's only fair, I guess—it's not really her fault that this happened."

Dr. Brief gave an absent pat to Scratch's ears, thinking. "There's no real rush, though," he amended. "I mean, you have your training, and it might not be . . . in our best interests to have her back so soon—especially when we don't have a handle on the situation just yet."

"But—" Pansy Brief began to protest.

"Now, dear," her husband raised a hand to quiet her, "it wouldn't do anyone any good to wish her back into dangerous circumstances, now would it?"

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," she blinked.

"Besides, there's no evidence left that she was even here, and I can't seem to find any records of living relatives for her, even with my own networks and pass codes," he indicated the laptop in front of him. "It might be best to just keep quiet about it until the coast is clear and then wish her back."

"No living relatives at all?" Pansy Brief questioned. "How awful! When we wish her back we simply must offer her a place to stay!"

"Dear," Dr. Brief addressed his wife patiently, "you do remember that she was a reporter who was hoping to write an exposé on our daughter that could potentially put us out of business, don't you?"

"But that poor girl! It's no wonder she had such a terrible line of work—she just needed a good role model!" Mrs. Brief insisted. "We can't just wish her back to life and leave her to fend for herself again. She needs a family to take care of her!"

"But really dear, having her in our house?" her husband tried to reason with her.

"So young and all alone . . ." Mrs. Brief ignored him.

"And people say _I'm_ too forgiving," Goku murmured.

* * *

><p>"That'll be forty-two fifty-seven," the teenaged cashier read the register's screen.<p>

"Right," Krillin fished in his pocket for his wallet as the young man in the apron began bagging his purchases. The fighter looked a little dismayed when he opened the leather flap to find a grand total of three specks of lint and an old receipt. "You take credit?"

"Fifty cent charge," the teenager pulled out a small machine for Krillin to slide his card.

"Great," the bald man rolled his eyes sarcastically, but got out his card nonetheless. "Just great," he muttered as he swiped.

"Rough week, huh?" The cashier asked as he bagged a twelve-pack of beer.

"What?" Krillin looked up only to flush red when he saw what the teenager in front of him was indicating. The countertop at the register was piled full of packs of cheap beer, fat stacks of "Puff Puff" and "Big Jugs" magazines, and a few boxes of mac-n-cheese. "Oh, uh—it's not . . . not for me . . ."

"I got you, bro," the teen winked conspiratorially as he finished up the bags and handed them to the bald fighter.

"No really, it's for—oh never mind," Krillin sighed as he took hold of the bags and walked out of the store, his mood sapping any energy he may have had to protest the cashier's assumptions. "That's the last time I do Master Roshi's grocery runs for him," he muttered to himself as the automatic doors closed behind him and he headed down the sidewalk to a space wide enough to deploy his capsule car.

The streets were somewhat crowded for a Friday afternoon, and quite a few city folk were out and about, despite the remaining puddles from the previous night's rain. Several business men were finishing up their lunch breaks late, stepping out of sandwich shops and cafés with their colleagues while a few mothers had taken their children out in strollers stuffed full of diapers, blankets, jackets, and umbrellas—just in case. A few college students walked ahead of Krillin, chatting and holding hands, quite obviously on a double date. The glum fighter walked with his head down, watching the cracks in the pavement pass under his feet, trying to ignore the fact that his hands only held bags full of the accoutrements of a lonely bachelor for life.

"Why can't I ever win? Just once I'd like to—oof!" his moping was cut off abruptly when he stumbled into another pedestrian.

"Oh, sorry there! I didn't mean to—Krillin?" a familiar voice asked. "What are you doing in West City?"

Rubbing his head from where it had impacted with the other man's stomach, Krillin finally looked up. "Yamcha? Hey," he greeted, slapping a smile on over his prior gloom. "Just on a day out, getting the essentials," he shrugged to indicate the bags in his hands.

Yamcha laughed. "Roshi out of beer again? Man, if I didn't think that guy would live forever, I'd say he'd die of liver damage."

"Yeah, well . . . some things never change," Krillin attempted to keep his smile, but could not help the corners falling a bit.

"You all right, Krillin?" Yamcha passed a concerned eye over the shorter man.

"Yeah, fine," the bald warrior shook his head to pull himself back into the conversation. "So what are you doing out and about? I'd have thought you'd be busy about this time."

"Baseball season's over," Yamcha explained. "I've got nothing but time now—at least until training starts up again."

"Really?" Krillin gave some polite interest. "I must admit, I didn't really pay much attention to the games. Did you guys win the series?"

"Hah, no way. Made it to the playoffs, but our lead pitcher choked—we got creamed from the second game on. You're lucky you missed it," Yamcha smiled. "It was hard to watch."

"Huh," Krillin pursed his lips in thought, "I really thought with you on the team the Taitans couldn't lose. I guess one guy really can't carry a whole team."

"I guess," Yamcha's smile never faded. "You need help with those?" he gave a glance to the grocery bags.

"Nah, I got it," Krillin gave another half-hearted smile, at which Yamcha narrowed his eyes.

"Are you sure you're all right, Krillin? You seem down," Yamcha tilted his head in inquiry. "Hey, how about a spar? I know I've been itching to get in some training with another fighter. What do you say?"

Krillin gave a sigh. "Not today, Yamcha. I'm . . . I'm not really in the mood," he started to walk past the other man.

"All right, now I _know_ something's wrong," Yamcha put a hand on Krillin's shoulder to stop him. "You've been isolating yourself for weeks now," he turned Krillin slightly toward him, "and that's weird enough for a social guy like you, but you almost never pass up a chance to spar. What's up, buddy?"

Krillin's sighing increased. "I don't know . . . I just," he paused, puzzling over how to express himself. "I just haven't really felt motivated . . . you know, like . . . what am I fighting for? _Who_ am I fighting for?"

Yamcha stepped back a little in surprise to hear some of his own doubts echoed by his friend. "You too, huh?"

Krillin's shoulders sagged, and it had little to do with the weight of his grocery bags. "Yeah . . . I mean, I just can't help thinking I'm going to be missing out on something—or everything, you know?"

"Believe me, I know," Yamcha gave an empathetic smile. "Hey, since we've both got some free time today, why don't you stop over at my place before you head back to Roshi's island? Puar said he was thinking of making something big for dinner tonight—and it sure beats Easy Mac."

"I don't want to impose on your day off," Krillin looked hesitant.

"Hey, no sweat," Yamcha clapped him on the back. "I'd like the company. Plus, you look like you could talk to someone who doesn't have their nose in a dirty magazine."

* * *

><p>Enormous blue eyes stared fixedly behind thick goggles. "The circuitry is simple enough," Bulma muttered to herself, picking through a mess of wires and microchips, "but this power core . . . it's really something else." She gingerly edged her pliers around the pulsating teal cube. "I've never seen anything like it," the awe and curiosity left her voice breathy.<p>

The laptop to her right flickered a new set of images, causing her to look up from her work to check. A segmented view of the southern geographic quadrant was filtered through an infrared lens, scanning over the mountainous terrain in blotches of red, yellow, and orange. A message popped up onscreen with a small error symbol: 'life force not found.' With an irritated few clicks, she started a new search and refocused her eyes on the project in front of her.

She had managed to prop up the remnants of the silvery cylinder that had almost been her demise not twenty-four hours prior. The entire device had cracked into to large pieces, full of multiple fissures, but much of it remained intact, and her deft fingers prodded and examined each singed circuit. The magnifying goggles over her eyes helped her guide her pliers around the mass of cables and semiconductors that nested around a softly glowing box about the size of a sugar cube. Her eyes could still only barely pick out the near microscopic sensor pieces on the ends of the wires that appeared almost like a miniature version of an electrocardiograph's electrodes. She squinted at the delicate craftsmanship, calculating.

She succeeded in picking at a few more wires and determining their sources before a high-pitched beeping startled her out of her technological reverie. Her cellular phone, attached with an Ethernet cable to her laptop switched from the 'wireless Internet output' screen to a ringing alarm bell. Glaring, she shut it off and sighed. "Time for the real world," she set her pliers aside and removed her goggles, making her eyes return to their normal size. With a last longing glance at the cracked metal remnants of the alien's gun, she stood up to get changed. "Got to go wow a few stiff-necked businessmen. But I'll be back for you later," she smiled before trotting off to the bathroom.

Not ten minutes later, Bulma stepped out in a set of sharp pumps and a snug violet dress, tying up her hair in a quick upsweep. Unable to keep herself away from her work, she put her earrings on distractedly with one hand as she clicked through various regions on her laptop with the other.

"Not even a heat signature? Come on, what is this guy—the invisible man?" Bulma huffed, starting another search. "People can't just disappear. If there's a lab out there, I should be able to find it!" She swept on a quick dab of lipstick as the fingers of her right hand typed out a new set of parameters in a flurry.

"Miss Brief?" a knock came at her door. "Are you ready yet?"

"Just a minute, Mark!" she called over her shoulder before hitting the return key. A progress bar slid slowly across the screen and Bulma stood up to let her top scientist in.

"Well, don't you look handsome?" Bulma smiled as she cracked open the door.

"Now, now," Mark chided, wagging a finger at her. "No exaggerated compliments now, or I'll have to file for harassment."

"Come off it," she let the man inside her suite. "You've known me since I was tagging along with my Dad to work, too small to push a company mail cart—and you were just an intern. I've known you for years. I wouldn't lie to you about something like that."

Mark adjusted his shirt collar over his skinny necktie. "I guess so, but if I look good, then you're a showstopper—you sure you're just looking for a negotiation this trip? It looks like you're going for a full merger," he pointed to the low neckline of her dress.

"Hey, it's still tasteful," she shrugged and gestured for him to take a seat on the suite's armchair while she applied the last few touches of mascara. "Besides, I'm not what's on the table, and you know it. Negotiations aren't until Sunday morning, so we should get in good with these guys now."

"You think the demonstration tomorrow will be enough to convince them?" Mark shifted his gaze from Bulma's preening to check out the rest of her room. The sun had just sunk beyond the horizon, and the dim light that came through her large, faceted window seemed to reflect blue off the top of the snow. A small 'beep' caught his attention and he glanced over to a compact table set up near the bed. There were tools and notes alike strewn in every direction, as well as some room service trays with empty cups of coffee stashed in the corner. A pair of pliers stuck up awkwardly from what looked like pieces of an elongated silver canister. A laptop nearby flashed several images before giving a warning sound and an error message. "Jeez, what is that?" he pointed. "Did you bring an entire lab with you?"

"Hm?" Bulma moved the mascara wand away from her eye to follow his finger. "Oh that. It's not a whole lab, but pretty close, huh?" she smiled proudly. "I whipped it up for trips like this. I mean, after my ordeals on Nam—uh, on some camping trips—I figured it'd be handy to have a functioning workstation I can take with me wherever I go. It can even run on solar power if I need it to. Jealous?"

"Yeah, actually," Mark had stood up to examine it closer. "And it all encapsulates?"

"You bet," Bulma gave one last check in the mirror before heading over.

"That's really incredible, Bulma," his awe overrode his usual formality in her name. He checked a few drawers and compartments on the table, noting that they were fully stocked with all kinds of electrical and engineering equipment. His eyes fell on the laptop again. "What're you searching for? This another project for us?" His hand hovered toward the mouse pad.

Bulma snapped the laptop shut, narrowly missing Mark's fingers. "No peeking," she chided.

"All right, all right," Mark put up his hands in apology. "Sheesh. You're like your dad, you know? Never letting anyone see stuff until you've got all the finishing touches on the final product."

"And don't you forget it," she smiled, relieved that she had avoided explanation.

"Well, are you ready then?" Mark put his hands on his hips. "Or are you going to keep working up here and just let everyone from Wright Materials start drinking without you?"

"I'm ready. I have to chat with the heads of each department anyway—get a handle on how they operate."

"Yeah, well you're in for a treat," Mark opened the door out of the suite for her. "I overheard the Prince of Plastics himself complaining about the lack of wireless service at the front desk."

"Prince?"

"Yeah, the Sultan of Synthetics, the Master of Metallurgy," Mark elaborated dramatically, "that Material Mogul, Dan Wright himself."

"So, the CEO's missing his connections already?" Bulma picked up her purse. "Good. That'll make the demonstration tomorrow morning more effective."

"Yeah, he's in a real foul mood. Everyone is, thanks to your brilliant plan," Mark rolled his eyes.

"Well, I'll just have to give him a little hint of our demonstration to whet his appetite, won't I?" she disconnected the prototype phone from her laptop jack, flourishing it dramatically before putting it into her purse.

Mark's eyes hardly left the phone, envious. "Now you're just being cruel."

* * *

><p>"Wow, that was great, Puar," Krillin set down his chopsticks and pushed his bowl away. "I didn't know you knew how to cook like that."<p>

The little cat across the table from him blushed, tingeing his blue fur purple. "Well, somebody has to take care of Yamcha. He's hopeless in the kitchen."

"Hey, I'm not that bad . . ." Yamcha pouted at his companions after patting his full stomach.

"Yamcha," Puar gave his friend a long look, "the last time you tried to cook, we were scrubbing the stove top for weeks." The cat floated around, collecting plates from the two humans and stacking them up in his tiny paws.

"It wasn't for that long!" the scarred fighter complained.

"A week and a half anyway," the cat retorted before floating upward and picking up his own plate.

"I got that," Yamcha smiled politely as his companion reached for the dishes in front of him. "At least let me prove I'm good for something. You relax. You've worked hard enough making this meal."

All too happy to oblige, Puar set the plates into the hands offered. "Great," he squeaked happily. "Now I can finish my reading tonight. I just got to the good part where the king of the thieves captures the lady and—"

"I'm sure I can hear all about it when you finish it . . . or when the movie comes out," Yamcha cut him off a little disinterestedly. "Whichever comes first."

"Your loss," the cat called over his shoulder, nonplussed, as he drifted out of the room.

"You want help with that?" Krillin offered from his seat at the table.

"Nah," Yamcha brushed it off with a shrug. "I can handle this. There's some beer in the fridge if you want, though." The ex-bandit set the dishes in the sink and started the tap. "I think I left the opener in the living room," he added.

Krillin opened the refrigerator and selected a brown bottle from the back before heading to the next room. He took a seat on the low, worn couch, brushing aside a few sports magazines to the coffee table, where he found a set of keys with a bottle opener hooked on.

With a small hiss and a pop, the lid was off and he took a few slow sips. A clock ticked on the far wall as he felt himself sink into the cushions, and he stared over the top of his bottle to the large entertainment centre across from him. There were several photographs scattered on top of it—apparently in no particular order, he noted as his eyes scanned them. Shots of martial arts tournaments past, summer barbeques at Capsule Corp., and beachside afternoons at Master Roshi's island sat within various frames, and his eyes unconsciously settled on one of them that had a head of blue hair nestled close to his scarred friend. He took another drink and dug out the remote from between the cushions.

Click.

"_So is this the dress?_"

"_Yes, yes, yes! This is my dress. Oh my gosh, I can't believe it. It's so perfect—I feel so beautiful! This is the one!_"

"_Did you just say 'yes' to the dr—_"

Click.

"_John, what are you doing? Why are you kneeling?_"

"_Brenda, my darling . . . will you make me the happiest man in the world and ma—_"

Click.

"_Why didn't you write to me? Why?_"

"_I wrote you every day for a year! It isn't over! It still isn't o—_"

Click.

"_Come enjoy a relaxing stay at our tropical island resort. Perfect for romantic getaways and honeymo—_"

Click.

"_If that plane leaves the ground and you're not with him, you'll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life._"

"_But what about us?_"

"_We'll always have Pa—_"

Click.

"_And if anyone should know of a reason why these two should not be together, speak now, or forever hold y—_"

Click. The television went black and he chucked the remote to the other side of the couch before downing over half the bottle he held. He rubbed his face with his hand.

"Woah, almost done already?" he heard Yamcha stop halfway into the room. "Hold on, I'll get another one." There were some footsteps and a couple of clinks before the taller man took a seat in the dingy armchair beside him.

Yamcha picked up his keys and flicked the top off his beer. "So what's really going on, Krillin?" he asked with genuine concern. "I haven't seen you this down since . . . well, I can't remember when I've seen you this down."

Krillin took a breath before finishing off his first bottle and moving on to the second one Yamcha had brought out for him. He spent a few minutes sloshing the beer around in the bottle before staring down at his feet and slumping his shoulders.

"It's Maron."

Yamcha took a thoughtful swig. "I thought it might be problems with a girl."

"That's just it," Krillin still did not look up from his shoes. "I'm not with her."

"Well, you broke up with her," Yamcha quirked a brow. "Why don't you just tell her you want to get back together?"

A faint blush crept from his cheeks to his bald head. "Its . . . it's not that easy," he hesitated. "I mean," he swallowed another mouthful, "we're not you and Bulma."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You guys are always on and off and back on again," Krillin pointed out, finally looking over at his friend. "We can't—Maron and I can't go back to that."

"Why not?" Yamcha puzzled. "I mean, what happened? It couldn't have been that bad."

"She moved on . . . fast," Krillin sighed. His fist clenched, pulling up some of the fabric of his pants. "I had my chance, and I blew it," he closed his eyes.

"Had your chance?" Yamcha set his bottle down, leaning forward with attention. "What are you talking about?"

Krillin stared back down at his feet. He remembered the beach at sunset, warm pinks and oranges reflecting over the water that lapped at his feet gently, and the footprints that had disappeared behind him when he had looked back. "She . . ." he started, swallowing to clear his throat, "she would've . . . would have said 'yes.'"

"W-what?" Yamcha stammered. "Would have said . . . she would've . . . you mean you were serious about the whole engagement thing?"

"Jeez, don't act so surprised," Krillin got a little of his sarcasm back through his slump. "It's not _that_ outrageous."

"I just—wow," Yamcha leaned back in his armchair, taking in the information. "How—how do you know that?"

"She told me," Krillin set his empty beer down next to the first. "Right . . . after I, uh—broke up with her."

Yamcha sucked in a breath with a sympathetic look. "Ouch."

Krillin was quiet for another moment before he stood up. "You need another one?"

"Yeah, sure," Yamcha answered to his friend's retreating back, still a little stunned.

Left alone in the room, Yamcha's eyes were also drawn by Krillin's words to the photographs atop his entertainment centre. As he looked from photo to photo, glancing from one group shot of flashing smiles and victory signs to another, he could not help but notice that in each one he seemed to be standing farther and farther away from that familiar shade of cerulean.

The 'pop' of a bottle cap snapped him out of it as Krillin placed another beer in front of him.

"Thanks," he blinked out of his reverie to watch his friend sit down.

"So, I was meaning to ask you," Krillin started with a sidelong look as he sank into the dull-coloured loveseat, "why aren't you with Bulma now? I mean, it's a Friday night and all."

"Well," Yamcha hesitated and peered down into the neck of his bottle, "we normally try to meet up on Fridays, but sometimes she . . . well, she gets busy, you know?"

"Busy?"

"Ever since she was put in charge of Capsule Corporation," Yamcha exhaled slowly, explaining. "Now I don't get to see her all that much. I mean, if she hasn't called yet, I think it means she must be caught up in another project or something. Most of the time, that's what's got her attention."

Krillin puzzled over this new information. "Jeez, and here I thought you had everything—high-paying job, pretty girlfriend, the whole package," he took another drink. "Guess there can be trouble in paradise after all."

"I hardly have everything," the corner of Yamcha's mouth pulled downward. "I mean, on the surface it seems like I've got what I want, but really . . . really it's just that—surface."

"What do you mean?" the two lower moxibustion burn marks on the ex-monk's forehead crinkled upward between his brows. "What exactly is it that you _do_ want?"

"I—" Yamcha's mouth clicked shut as he tried to contemplate his answer thoroughly. His fingers tapped the side of his beer bottle softly as Krillin waited patiently for his answer.

"I guess I want a life as normal as anyone else's, really," Yamcha's gaze latched onto the liquid in his drink. "Sure, I like being strong and powerful and all that," he conceded, though his voice held a tone that lingered, "not that I'm anywhere near the rest of you guys, but, you know, as great as it is to be one of the strongest humans on Earth," his eyes lifted toward his friend, "I still kind of want that old picket fence, you know? A house, a smile waiting for me when I get home . . ." he trailed off wistfully. "I guess I just want . . . well, a quiet, peaceful life—a time when all the super-charged, super-powered challenges'll stop. All this adventure and fighting and excitement is great and all—but it's only temporary. I just want—I just need someone to . . . I don't know, just need someone to be here when I get home, telling me it's all right. That I did a good job and all." He blushed at his confession and took another swig of beer to cover it up.

Krillin continued to stare with his brows crinkled.

"I guess," Yamcha's blush intensified, "I guess it's all kind of stupid and sentimental, but—"

"I don't think it's stupid," Krillin interrupted. "I mean, who doesn't want that—or something like it, at least. I mean, with guys like Goku around, it's hard to feel like . . . like you matter at all. I know I want—it'd be great if . . . if someone were at home, waiting for me."

A meek smile crossed Yamcha's lips at his friend's agreement as he took another sip of his beer.

"So, are you going to ask her?"

Yamcha sputtered a little, unable to swallow. "A-ask her what?" he stammered, stalling.

"Are you going to ask Bulma to marry you?"

Yamcha hesitated, looking back to the line of photographs. "_I don't even know if she'd say yes. It's been over ten years—you'd think we were _already_ married by now!_" the thought returned to him. He gave a sigh and looked back down at his feet.

"I . . . I'm not sure."

Krillin frowned at his answer. "You shouldn't let it pass you up," his voice was stern.

Yamcha looked up, a little sheepish at being lightly scolded by his friend.

"If it's what you want, you can't just let it slide by," Krillin's mouth pulled further downward as he thought back to his own relationship, and her words echoed through his memories: "_I would have said yes, you know. I couldn't refuse someone as sweet as you_." He did not think he could ever get the image of her shapely form walking away on that beach as he helplessly called after her. "Sometimes . . . sometimes the risks are worth taking. If I had another chance—well, I'd want to take it. You should ask her what she wants out of life too," he rubbed a hand over his shaved scalp. "You might be surprised that what she wants isn't so far off from what you do."

"You think . . . you really think she might want the same thing?" Yamcha looked to his friend, who nodded. "Ask what she wants first, huh?" he tested the idea aloud before allowing it to sink in.

Krillin polished off the rest of his beer. "Yeah, but probably not now—not this late, and not if she's busy. Not exactly smooth, you know?"

Yamcha smiled to see some of his friend's light-heartedness returning. "What, you don't think I could win her over with my charm any time of night?"

"Charm?" Krillin fired back. "I don't know if you've got any charm—smarm maybe, but definitely no charm."

"Jeez, with friends like you . . ." Yamcha crossed his arms in a mock-huff.

"Heh, yeah. Who needs Vegeta or Frieza when you've got me, right?" Krillin laughed. He stood up, holding onto the edge of the couch a little for support as the blood drained from his head, making him a little dizzy.

"Hey, you aren't thinking of heading out now, are you?" Yamcha asked.

"I was thinking about it, yeah," Krillin stretched a little. "Roshi's probably wondering where his magazines are about this time."

Yamcha waved his hand dismissively. "Let him wait. He should be getting his own magazines, anyway. Besides, you shouldn't be driving back now that you've had a few."

"Actually, I was planning on flying back. I won't be a road hazard that way, and I figure it can't be that hard."

"I don't know," Yamcha made a grimace. "I wouldn't recommend it. I mean, the last time I flew drunk, I never did catch the number on that mountain that jumped out of nowhere."

"Seriously?" Krillin blinked. "You flew into a mountain?"

"Not one of my best nights," the scarred fighter looked down at his thumbs, blushing. "Anyway, I don't see why you have to rush off to Kame House right away. Roshi can wait until morning to get his Easy Mac and booze."

"You know," Krillin tilted his head toward his friend, gaining a bit more confidence, "you're right. I deserve some time to do what I want to do."

"That's the spirit," Yamcha grinned.

"Okay," Krillin sat back down on the couch, "but if I'm going to stay over, we'd better start doing something manly like watch sports or something." He picked up the remote and tossed it to his friend. "I don't think my ego can take any more of this 'talking about our feelings' stuff."

* * *

><p>Feynman was scowling over the top of her mostly empty martini glass. A crowd of elegantly dressed co-workers, executives, and associates milled around her with their cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, giving her a small circle of space, as if the intensity of her glare possessed something physical that repelled merrymakers of any sort. She stood alone in her little black dress, nearly biting into the rim of her glass in frustration as her eyes pierced through the short dresses and pressed jackets. She let out a low growl, causing some of the closer corporate guests to back further away.<p>

"Got you another one!" a cheery voice punctured the empty space surrounding her.

She tossed back the remains of her drink and held out her hand for the next without a glance at its source.

"C'mon, you going to mope all night?" Sankey took the empty glass from her and set it on the tray of a passing waiter.

"I'm not moping."

"Okay then," Sankey rolled his eyes as he took a sip of his gin and tonic, "planning an assassination?"

"Har, har."

"Oh, lighten up," he stepped closer to her. "You keep glaring like that, and you'll put a hole in him," he nudged her playfully in the arm.

The nudge managed to slosh the contents of her drink onto the hem of her dress. "Sankey!" she scolded, finally taking her eyes off her target at the far end of the room to focus them on him.

"Sorry!" he pulled out the handkerchief from his breast pocket and immediately knelt down to dab at the spill. The short dress left most of her legs bare, and as he tried to soak up the stain he blushed when he realized just how much of her he could see from his new vantage point.

"What the hell are you doing?" he felt a braceletted smack to the head. "Stop that!" Feynman hissed at him.

"I—I, uh . . . sorry!" he shot up as if at attention, now facing some very penetrating green eyes.

"I can do that myself," Feynman snatched the handkerchief with an indignant snort. "Of all the boneheaded . . ." she muttered, sopping up the small pool of vodka and vermouth on her thigh.

Flushed and fidgety, Sankey covered half his face with his glass as he tipped it up, drinking until his co-worker's cleaning and cursing had stopped. He had barely finished it off before his handkerchief was thrown back in his face, damp and warm from her furious blotting. "I'm really sorry," he offered.

Feynman exhaled quickly, which seemed to ease a little of her tension. "Just . . . just watch where you're elbowing," the tone was exasperated, but not altogether hostile.

"So," Sankey felt her mood had fallen down to more manageable and receptive levels, "are you going to go talk to him or what?"

The second martini lost half its contents at her next tipple. "When would I have the chance? All his attention's still on the boss. I can't compete with that."

Sankey frowned a little. "Hey, don't put yourself down." His eyes fell a little, inadvertently tracing back up her long, exposed legs. "You're, uh, pretty hard to ignore, you know."

If she had heard his compliment or noticed the path of his gaze, she did not respond to it. Her eyes were still slicing through the crowd, past the dinner jackets and curled up-dos to a cleanly pressed suit and a head of dark brown hair with his back to her. They narrowed as she picked out a low laugh, followed by the familiar voice of her employer.

Sankey followed her eyes to the back of the tall man and picked out the toss of some blue curls from his conversation partner. "I'm sure they're just talking business. I mean, it makes sense for the bosses to get to know each other at this thing. They're the ones working out a deal and all."

"She shouldn't hog him so much, though," Feynman insisted. "I mean, she's got her own guy—that baseball star."

"Well, there you go. She's not interested in him. Of course, I don't really get what you see in the guy anyway," Sankey lamely tried to segue. "You don't even really know him."

"_Everybody_ knows Dan Wright," she managed to break her stare from her target to glance at her co-worker in annoyance. "The guy's legacy! He took over his father's company when he was twenty, doubled the profits, and now owns the biggest manufacturing corporation this side of Capsule Corp. itself."

"That's not much to go on. An Internet search could tell you that much—well, it could if we had any signal here," he flicked his phone out of his pocket. "They weren't kidding when they said this place was remote," he sighed at the sight of the empty bars at the top right corner of the screen. "Anyway, what I'm getting at is that you shouldn't let a missed chance to talk to a guy you don't even really know ruin your night."

"He's not just a guy, Sankey," she took another drink. "He's _the_ guy."

"Oh, forgive me," he swirled the remaining liquid in his own glass, "I didn't know he was _the_ guy. That makes a _huge_ difference," he rolled his eyes.

"And I know enough about him to tell that I want to at least _try_," Feynman brushed off his sarcasm. "I mean, the guy's a genius. He's a whiz at business—"

"—which you know nothing about—"

"—and he has an additional degree in comparative literature—"

"—which you have no interest in—"

"—and he knows Italian, French, Mandarin, Russian, Latin, Swedish, Japanese—"

"—and you can't speak any of those."

"Who cares?" she blew some stray hairs from her face with a pout. "_He_ can. If he wants to woo me in a foreign language, I don't care if I don't understand a word of it as long as he keeps talking."

Sankey hailed a waiter over to pick up his empty glass, but never took his attention off Feynman. "You left out the part about him being rich," he pointed out a little snidely.

"Are you implying something?" her hand clenched tightly over the stem of her martini glass as she handed it to the waiter.

"Nope, never. Never implying anything." He coughed. "I would never think of it."

Feynman crossed her arms. "You'd better not," she huffed.

"I just don't see what you guys would talk about, though," Sankey admitted. "It's not like he's exactly known for being really involved in the technical aspects of his company. He's no scientist."

"Who said I wanted him to be?" Feynman asked, putting a few strands of her dark blond hair back into place. "If I limited myself to scientists, I'd really have slim pickings."

"Hey—"

"I'm going to go talk to him," she resolved quickly. "How do I look?" she tugged at the hem of her dress as she faced her co-worker.

"I—" Sankey was caught up all over again with the place where her dress stopped high on her thighs. Feynman was slim, with thin shoulders and a small chest, but her legs seemed to never end and the dress she had on managed to highlight this perfectly. With her hair piled up on her head, exposing her long neck, she gave off the look of a tall dancer, slender and trim. "You . . . you look great," he managed to get out, his eyes dropping again to look at the way her high heels pushed her calf muscles into an attractive curve.

"Good, now come on," she grabbed his arm, pulling him with her.

"Hey, why do I have to come?" Sankey whined.

"I'll need you to distract the boss so I can have a crack at him."

"Why me?" Sankey tried to avoid bumping into a waiter with a tray of finger foods as he trailed behind Feynman. She wove them around groups of executives and co-workers from Capsule Corporation and Wright Materials alike, hardly taking any notice at Sankey's rushed apologies at each shoulder-to-shoulder collision. As they came closer, Feynman slowed down, staying just within earshot and measuring when she would make her move.

"—doesn't seem to matter what I try, I can't get any signal at all." His voice was deep, and he kept it at a low volume that made Feynman want to draw in closer.

"Funny, I don't seem to have the same problem." The boss's voice—confident, almost smug tonight. They were just a couple people away from the two company presidents and could clearly see them between the other conversationalists. Feynman pulled Sankey closer to her, indicating for him to be quiet with a finger to her lips. Sankey complied, but not without a slight grimace at the sight of his partner's fixation.

Dan Wright stood rather tall, with a wiry frame beneath his dark blue suit. His skin was a slight olive, tanned as if from travelling, and it contrasted nicely with the light colour of his collared shirt. Dark hair was styled neatly atop his head, and he stood up straight, keeping a slight distance from Miss Brief as he spoke to her.

He appeared to be fiddling with his mobile phone for a bit before putting it back into his breast pocket. "And I'm sure this has nothing to do with your upcoming telecommunications presentation?" His heavy brows rose slightly with his knowing tone.

"You catch on quickly, don't you?" Bulma Brief arched an eyebrow of her own.

"It's no accident," he spoke in clipped phrases. "You're trying to impress me by creating the demand for your products right here."

"I won't have to try very hard," Bulma folded her arms smugly. "I seem to have made an impression already."

"Touché, Miss Brief," he took a sip from the wine glass he held. "But I have to say that these tricks won't get you what you're after."

"Oh? And how would you know what I'm after?"

"Why, a merger, of course. Your company is in need of the resources only Wright Materials can provide."

"If you already know," Bulma shifted her weight, leaning on one hip, "why don't we just skip the presentation?"

"And cut straight to the merger?" Dan Wright gave her an appraising look, tracing up the curve of her hip a little. "That's a bit forward, don't you think?"

Feynman nudged Sankey in the ribs. "We'd better move fast," she hissed. "I think he's starting to like her." She manoeuvred them around a portly gentleman enjoying his scotch so they would be in prime position to strike. "You distract Brief and I'll pull Wright out of there," she rested a hand on Sankey's shoulder, prepping.

Sankey felt something tingle down his arm from where her hand was and swallowed to stay calm. He nodded in agreement to her plan.

"—could benefit from combining assets."

"We'll have to see how well your other products hold up, Miss Brief. I'm not about to jump into a decision before you can prove that your products are financially viable."

Bulma laughed. "Mr. Wright, by this time tomorrow, you'll know you can't afford to stay away from Capsule technology."

"Big words," Wright challenged back. "But don't think that I'll be swayed so easily. I've managed to keep my father's company independent for quite some time now—I don't intend to seek help when I don't need it, no matter how nicely packaged it may come."

"Nicely packaged?"

"The retreat, the drinks," he gave her a long look, "the . . . scenery. All simple ploys to try to sway negotiations in your favour."

Sankey snorted slightly. _What is this guy, a robot? He's got the personality of a stump—all business and no pleasure_. He stole a glance at his co-worker, who seemed just about ready to spring from her spot, before glancing back to the other man. _What the heck does she see in him?_

"—be ready, all right?" he heard the end of Feynman's sentence.

"What?" he snapped his attention back on her.

"We're moving out," she gripped his shoulder, shoving him out from their hiding place. "Thanks, buddy!" she whispered before he stumbled between the two executives and found himself standing in front of his boss.

Bulma blinked at him in puzzlement. "Sankey?" she asked hesitantly, trying to place the name to the face.

"Uh, hi . . . uh, Miss Brief," he felt the colour rise to his cheeks under his boss' gaze. _Buddy_, he thought dismayingly, _she called me buddy_. He could hear Feynman directing Dan Wright off to the side, speaking in the excited tone she usually used during their projects together whenever she knew she was close to a breakthrough. It was full of nervous enthusiasm, the kind that brimmed over the top of her normally snappish demeanour, and Sankey was more than a little sad to hear it slowly retreating away from him.

"Did you need something?" Bulma raised a brow in question at her employee.

"Oh, uh . . . yeah . . . I," Sankey fumbled, trying to keep his mind on his task, "I—I have a question!" he clasped his hands together to stop them from trembling. _Buddy_ . . . "Yeah, um, it's about the presentation . . ."

* * *

><p>AN: Not the most exciting of chapters, but necessary nonetheless. Sorry to keep you guys waiting so long–new term, new students, new papers to write and a nerve-wracking waiting period on PhD applications. On the bright side, much of my current work on translations will be directly applicable to this fic–because, above all else, I am an uber-nerd. Unfortunately, the scenes where this is relevant won't come about until much later . . . another reason this one took me so long to write; I've got loads of snippets for chapters down the road, but right now I've lost my cushion, so the next few chapters are coming out straight off the presses.<p>

What does this mean for you? Well, it means slower updates, but it also means that your reviews have a direct effect on how the next few chapters are written! So ask your questions, comment on things you'd like to see, voice your speculations! I try to respond to all signed reviews via PM, even if it's just to say thanks. Sometimes, though, you guys are the best source of inspiration, and your reviews lead me to explore lots of things I wouldn't have otherwise. ^_^

Don't worry, I'll make up for this chapter's lack of Vegeta in the next one. Also, there should be a bit more excitement.


	7. Close Encounters

CHAPTER 7 – Close Encounters

Disclaimer: I own nothing but two cats, a computer, and my vast accumulated debt from student loans.

* * *

><p>The beginnings of the morning's sunlight scattered in columns around the misted precipices, bending between cloud pockets on the horizon. The light filtered through the crags and outcroppings, bowing and refracting when it pierced the low-hanging haze that circled atop the foothills. As the sun rose higher over the rounded peaks, the cool vapour began to dissipate, and the bright reds and oranges of the autumn trees came in sight, draped in dew. A small gust of wind and a blur of blue shook the droplets off their boughs.<p>

Vegeta tightened and relaxed his shoulders in turn, attempting to alleviate the stiffness he felt from keeping them locked in position for so long. Worn lines were beginning to appear below his eyes and showed the strain of a night without sleep and of the constant suppression of his energy from detection. He flew low, just above the tree canopy, and, while he startled a few birds, he left no energy trail to speak of.

_Slow going, this flying under the radar_, he inwardly grumbled, _but it should be close now_.

As he curved round the next grass-topped hillock, he could make out several shining specks moving about and kicking up dust and leaves in the upcoming valley. Trucks and vans parked around the edges of a depressed clearing, and several figures milled about them, setting up stations filled with mechanical instruments and breakfast pastries. Vegeta slowed his flight as he came closer, and, upon hearing the sound of human voices, descended to the ground and into a covered thicket.

"—don't know why we even bother. It's not like today's going to be any different."

Vegeta crouched low, peering out through the brambles. The closest van to him had its side door open, and a heavy-set man was lumbering out to put some equipment on a work table that was set up nearby.

"Quit your whining, Frank," another man stepped out, carrying a few boxes, "and put the Geiger counters on the left."

The one called Frank grumbled as he wrapped up the cords to the small devices in his hands and shoved them in a pile on the left end of the table. "I'm just saying," he went on, "it doesn't seem to matter what we do—nothing works. I don't know why they keep sending us out here."

"Our job is to find out what that thing in the crater is," the other man flipped open a pink box on the table and pulled out a cruller. "The sooner we do that," he took a bite out of it, "the sooner we go home."

"Yeah, but," Frank's eyes lingered on the box of pastries behind his partner, "do they have to keep sending us out at the crack of dawn? I mean really, Kurt, it's not like we're going to catch the particle interference off-guard by coming early."

"Look, we come here, we get paid," Kurt licked some of the powdered sugar off his fingers. "Long as they keep paying me to come, I'll work as many hours as I have to."

"But we still can't get a proper read on . . . well, whatever it is," Frank shrugged his shoulders. "The interference is so thick we can't even get a decent photo of it. It's been days now and the cameras are still shorting out the minute we get close enough to even get a look at the darn thing," he jabbed a frustrated hand toward the crater that started just behind where the van was parked.

Vegeta narrowed his eyes as he took in the sight at ground level. Peering past the two squabbling humans, he could see where the ground dipped low, sloping into a wide basin. Where the vehicles and equipment circled around the edges, a hazy dome seemed to waver in and out of sight, obscuring whatever was within the basin of the crater from view. The barrier seemed to materialise in pulses, fading in and out in an alternating rhythm. Between bouts of the cloudy cover's appearance, Vegeta could just pick out a gleam of silver.

_Definitely not a standard-issue Frieza ship_, he frowned as he discerned its flat, triangular silhouette.

"Just shut up and do the work you're told," Kurt snapped at the other man.

"I'm just saying," Frank pouted before sidling up to the pastry box, "we're going to get the same results whether we come early or we come late." He snatched up a muffin.

Kurt rolled his eyes as he pulled out a sheet of notes to look over. "You're always 'just saying.' Maybe if you stopped 'saying' and actually started 'doing' we wouldn't have to keep working at this."

Frank brushed some crumbs off his shirt, "It's not like you're any closer to figuring out what that thing is than I am."

"Yeah, but I at least manage to collect all the data I need before sunset." Kurt methodically began ticking marks against his procedure list. "The rate you go, we'll be here past seven."

"Hey," Frank polished off his muffin, "I'm just a little slow to get started. Give me a minute," he pulled out a bear claw from the box, "and I'll get on it."

Kurt rolled his eyes, but slid a report over to his colleague. "When you finish stuffing your face, get started on this."

Vegeta turned away and crouched down to take a seat, propping his arm over his knee as he weighed his options. A breeze swept past him, bringing with it the rustling of leaves that covered the low murmurs of the rest of the humans' inane conversation. Surrounded as he was by plant life and hunkered down, waiting to make his next move, he felt a keen sense that he had been in this situation before—a green sky and blue trees that wavered in the breeze as he sat couched between the rocks, perched atop one of those prized orange spheres, the sleeplessness, the covering of his tracks, the prickling anxiety—

He shook his head, rubbing the sleep from his eyes to keep himself alert.

_Clearly, the ship has some sort of defence mechanism_, he pondered out. _Whatever it is, it's enabled the thing to remain hidden and inaccessible for this long. I'll have to find a way in so I can determine where it came from—there has to be some sort of log on the navigation console._

_The humans will be here until evening_, he scowled, _and disrupting them would draw attention. If I blast them, it will give away my position, and the last thing I need is Kakarrot sensing me and popping in. _He leaned back and folded his arms.

_What was that woman thinking, calling in that idiot? Does she think I can't handle matters myse—_he shook his head again, clearing those extraneous thoughts from his mind.

_Matter at hand_, he refocused himself, and reached into his armour to pull out a small capsule. Clicking the tab, it deployed with a soft 'pop' and a puff of smoke that vanished on the wind, revealing a standard-sized duffel bag. He opened it and dug through several wrapped sub sandwiches, jostling them from the positions they had settled in from their initial packing the morning prior. His gloved hand finally struck something metal, and he removed the silver dome of the Tritekian helmet, extracting it from its snug nest and setting it down beside himself.

_This should be able to tell me how to work my way through the defences once those humans leave, _his hand grazed over the top of the helmet. _In the meantime_ . . . he eyed a pastrami sandwich in the bag with a predatory smirk.

* * *

><p>"Well, I don't know about you, but I could sure use one of those phones about now. It's killing me not knowing how the game is going."<p>

"Yeah, I feel you. I didn't think anything could get service out here—and that translation setting? Kind of makes me wish I had that for some of the overseas contacts."

"But what about that new capsule design? It's even smaller than the last model."

"I just want to know how they came up with the idea for that shield generator. The specs are crazy—the thing can deflect stuff with the force of a missile!"

Bulma barely contained a grin as she finished her cup of coffee. She stood by the creamer at the end of a table laden with a spread of croissants, finger sandwiches, bagels, and fruit. With the presentation over, the group had broken for brunch, and most of the attendees were milling about, adjusting their nametags and nibbling pastries while they debated the merits of what they had been shown. She caught several of Wright Materials' research and development heads hemming and hawing over a presentation pamphlet being passed between them, their noses almost touching as they whispered nervously. Bulma's smile broadened as she poured herself another cup, watching them sweat.

"You take sugar?"

Bulma turned her attention to the sudden intrusion on her gloating. Dan Wright had come up beside her, holding two white packets in his hand. "Sure," she agreed, holding out her cup to him, "with a bit of cream."

The head of Wright Materials quickly tore open the packets and prepared the beverage for her while she watched, curiously eyeing his smooth hands. "So," she started as he finished pouring a small amount of cream in her cup and passed it to her, "what did you think of the presentation?"

"About as I expected." He poured his own cup of coffee and drank it black.

"It looks like it was pretty exciting for your research team," Bulma pointed out the chattering group a little farther off in the room. Her tone remained determined not to be affected by his adamant neutrality.

"They'll recover soon enough. They have their own projects to be working on."

"Oh?" Bulma raised a brow. "Like what? The last line of products you guys came out with was made exclusively for Capsule technology. We make up over half your profit margin."

His stern expression had not changed. "I've yet to see anything we can't live without this time around."

Bulma felt a muscle below her eye twitch. "That's not what you were saying last night," she retaliated.

"You should watch what you say when you're in public," he snorted, a little disgusted. "People could get the wrong idea."

"I was talking about the cell service," she insisted, putting a hand to her hip, but bit back further comments. _Come on, Bulma—don't lose track of the matter at hand. You don't want to drive him away from the merger_. She took a sip of coffee to calm her nerves and squash any future inadvertent double-entendres. "So," she eased her tone of voice, "have you got anything new hitting the market?"

"Are you shopping?" he did not look at her.

"Just curious," Bulma tapped a finger against her foam cup. "You said you had your own projects. I was just making conversation."

"We have a few," he responded evenly.

Bulma waited a few moments for him to continue before her nails started denting the sides of her cup. _Why the heck did he come up to me if he doesn't have anything to say? _she fumed inwardly. _It's like I have to drag it out of him_. "Oh? Anything in the synthetic metals department?"

He gave her a glance. "As a matter of fact, yes."

Another pause. "I'd love to hear about that," she invited. _Jeez, this guy is even more tight-lipped than Vegeta!_ she thought impatiently.

She took careful note of how the man's jaw set before he turned to her, as if he were measuring his response—

—_or his timing_, Bulma realized with a raise of her brow. _He's stonewalling_. _But why?_

"We have a few prototypes in the works," he started slowly. "Some of them might be useful for your . . . gadgets. Of course, under our partnership agreement, Capsule Corporation would only be entitled to a marginal discount."

"Under the _current_ partnership agreement," Bulma corrected. "We could always . . . adjust that, you know."

"Yes, well," his lips drew into a tight line, "we'll keep our options open and see who gives us the best offer for our value. Now, if you'll excuse me, there are some things I need to discuss with legal." He turned abruptly.

"Oh—well, 'bye then," she waved to his already retreating back. _Now I know he's playing at something._ Bulma took a sip of her coffee as she watched him cross the room. _ What's he hiding? _She began to leave little teeth marks on the edge of her cup as she ruminated.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Bulma blinked up at the new voice. "Hmm? Oh—hi, Mark."

"Great presentation," her top scientist smiled, turning the hot water spigot of the coffee pot for his tea. "Everything went off without hitch—and I think we have some admirers," he tilted his head toward the group of research scientists Bulma had noted earlier.

"Except they're playing hard to get," Bulma frowned.

"What? Oh, you mean Mr. Personality?" the cheery man hazarded a glance across the room toward Dan Wright. The stoic company president appeared to be moderately tolerating the excited chatter of one of his company attorneys, slowly sipping his coffee and betraying nothing. "Yeah, he seems like a tough one." Mark dunked his bag of tea up and down in the cup, steeping it.

"It was like talking to a brick wall—as if the whole point of him waltzing over here was to prove how disinterested he is in joining forces."

"Are you kidding?" glanced at her incredulously. "WM _needs_ us. Over half their stuff is specifically designed for our products."

"I know," Bulma rubbed her temple. "But with the way he's acting, it's like he's got something else in mind. Damn," she threw back the last of her coffee, giving an irritated grimace at the dregs as she swallowed. "I really thought we had the merger in the bag with the way the presentation went."

Mark fidgeted a little nervously with the string of his tea bag. "You don't think . . ." he lowered his voice a little and furtively leaned in closer, "that he might have someone else with a better offer?"

"No way," Bulma crumpled up her cup and tossed it in the can nearby. "The partnership we have guarantees that we'll be the most beneficial for his company. It just doesn't make sense for him to try to brush us off now," she folded her arms. "What's his game?"

"Beats me," Mark shrugged. "Maybe he's just a jerk."

Bulma's eyes narrowed. "Or he wants to raise the stakes." Her lips tightened into a thin line as she glared off into the crowd.

"There's that look again."

"What look?" she barely glanced over at him.

"That look you get when you're in your 'target flaws, neutralize problem' mode," he explained with a laugh. "It's the same one you had when the test runs for the car weren't going right."

"I do not have a 'look,'" Bulma insisted a little indignantly.

"If you say so," Mark shrugged. "Just make sure that when you find the flaw you're looking for, you go easy on the guy. He hasn't really been the same since his father went on medical leave."

"I thought that was over four years ago."

"Even so, he's still just a kid, and he hasn't been in this game that long."

"He's been in it longer than I have," Bulma pointed out. "I only became acting president a little over a month ago."

Mark seemed to process this. "True enough, I guess," he conceded. "Anyway, have you seen Feynman around? I wanted to compliment her on the write-up she did for the presentation. Made it smooth sailing for me."

"No, I haven't really seen her since last night. She must be around, though," Bulma answered distractedly. "She wouldn't have missed the presentation."

"Yeah, maybe she's with that finance guy I saw her with last night. Can't imagine why, though—definitely not her type. Besides, I always thought she and Sankey were an item . . ."

Mark Pareto's comments faded from Bulma's attention as her eyes turned to bore into the broad-shouldered back of Dan Wright. _I am _not_ going to lose this merger_, she frowned, _certainly not to some uptight business brat. I don't care if he's been doing this longer than I have—he's got to have some sort of weakness._

"—know that as their supervisor, I shouldn't encourage a relationship like that, but they just work so well together . . ."

Bulma nodded absently, her mind still calculating. _There's got to be some way to break down his defences. Everyone's got skeletons in their closet—some more extraterrestrial and explosive than others_, she thought of her own with a slight blush, _but still—he can't be as cool and collected as he seems. Everyone has something to hide_, she took a deep, determined breath, _and I'll find yours, Dan Wright._

"—but I think it's bound to happen anyway. It's just a matter of time."

Bulma agreed.

* * *

><p>Krillin blinked as a sunbeam fell on his face. He stirred slowly, rubbing his eyes and easing himself upward through his headache. He sat up and leaned back for a moment, adjusting his eyes to the room and his mildly throbbing temples. The blinds were only partially closed, and several offending shafts of light laced themselves across the dun-coloured couch he had slept on. As he stretched, the light blankets over his shoulders fell to the floor, and, as he picked them up, he noted the general dull colour scheme of the place. It appeared that beyond the expensive entertainment system and some rare automobile memorabilia, Yamcha's sports star salary did not extend to his décor.<p>

"You'd think he'd pick a more exciting colour than brown," Krillin muttered, rubbing his scalp and staring at the beige carpet beneath his feet. He only looked up when he heard someone attempting to close a door quietly.

"Sorry, man," Yamcha looked sheepish as he crossed the living room with the morning paper in his hand. "Didn't mean to wake you up."

"Already up and paying for it," Krillin gave him a bleary-eyed smile.

Yamcha returned it. "I hear you," he tapped the paper lightly against his head. "Come on, let's get some water and some aspirin."

"Breakfast of champions," Krillin threw on his shirt from yesterday and followed his friend into the kitchen.

"Good morning—or should I say afternoon?" Puar squeaked as the two men entered, blowing across the top of his cup of tea.

Yamcha winced a little the high-pitched greeting, but gave a small wave back in acknowledgement. Krillin followed in behind him as the taller fighter dropped the newspaper on the table and went to the cupboards.

"Hey, Puar," Yamcha appeared to be looking for something. "You wouldn't happen to remember where I put the—"

Puar rattled a small container of pills in front of him, halting Yamcha's sentence.

"Perfect," he smiled as he pulled a couple glasses from the cupboard and filled them. "Here, Krillin," he set one down in front of his friend before puttering back over to scrounge up some cereal.

Krillin took the glass and the bottle of aspirin in front of him and tossed some back before taking a glance at the front page of the paper.

"You feeling okay?" Puar inquired.

"Yeah, just a little too old for this," Krillin finished off the rest of his water glass, "but not old enough to learn from my mistakes."

"This okay, Krillin?" Yamcha held up a blue box of Krispie-Os.

"Yeah, sure," Krillin took a glance and nodded. "Can't stay long, though," he opened the newspaper to continue reading an article. "Got to finish up the errands for Roshi."

Yamcha poured out two bowls and set them on the table along with a carton of milk. He took his seat and poured. "It's a shame, really," he slid a spoon over to his friend before picking up his own. "You should try to get out for more than just errands. Maybe we could set up a training schedule," he hesitated, remembering his friend's mood on the subject the day before. "If you're feeling up to it, that is," he added.

Krillin started on his cereal. "Not such a bad idea. How do you feel about Saturdays?"

"As long as it's not early in the morning," Yamcha took a bite, happy to see Krillin out of his funk. "Pass me the sports section, would you?"

"Sure," Krillin obliged, pulling out a few central leaves of the paper and sliding them over before getting back to his bowl.

"Anything about the teams trading players?" Puar inquired as Yamcha read.

"Just speculation right now," he chomped down another spoonful. "Besides, you know they wouldn't think of trading me."

"But the last time your agent called—"

"Don't worry about it, Puar," Yamcha flattened the sports section in front of him. "The Taitans would never trade off their top player."

"I bet your asking price is too high for anyone to even think of making a deal anyway," Krillin held back a chuckle as he flattened out the entertainment section in front of him. "Maybe I should try signing up to play so there might be some competi—what the?" he blinked at the page in front of him.

"Hm?" Yamcha blinked away from his reading. "What is it, Krillin?"

"It's . . . it's Capsule Corporation," Krillin's eyes widened as they ran through the article. "There's been some sort of accident at Bulma's house."

"Oh no!" Puar dropped his spoon into his tea.

"What?" Yamcha stood up in alarm. "What happened? What kind of accident?"

"Hold up," Krillin tried to calm him down. "It says here that no one in the family or staff was injured. It was just some laser experiment—"

"Let me see," Yamcha leaned in over Krillin's shoulder, his eyes running through the article and darting to the blurry photo beside it. Though the image mostly consisted of the top of the compound's security gate, a small section of the grounds could be made out where scorched tracks tore up the normally immaculate lawn.

"Those aren't from a laser," Yamcha's eyes narrowed darkly as he examined the photo, tracking the distinctive burn pattern along the edges of each section of overturned turf. "Those are from energy blasts."

"What?" Puar asked, taking a closer look. "Are you sure?"

"I knew it," Yamcha straightened up, clenching his fist. "I knew something would go wrong with that insane training."

"Training? Wait, you think this was—"

"It's Vegeta—it's got to be," Yamcha began to head out of the room, his tone resolute. "He's gone too far this time—"

"Hold on, we don't know that anything like that happened," Krillin trotted behind him with the paper in hand as the taller fighter headed to his room. "Bulma's the one who gave the press release," he jabbed his finger to the text, "so she must be all right. Look!"

Yamcha did not turn around as he shrugged a shirt over his tank. "The last time he pulled something like this, he blew up the spaceship and shook the whole compound. Who knows what he's done this time? I have to go help." He shoved his arm into a jacket.

"You sure you're not rushing into this? I mean, if there's any family on earth that could handle something like this, it'd be the Briefs."

"He's right, Yamcha," Puar added. "Bulma's dealt with things like this before, and if she was okay to give a press release then maybe she—"

"Why are you trying to stop me?" Yamcha whirled around. "Bulma's house just got trashed—she needs my help!"

"Yamcha," Krillin placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, "the report says this happened Thursday night."

Yamcha paused. "W-what?"

"Yeah. This is old news," the bald fighter attempted to calm him down.

"But," Yamcha shook his head, unconvinced, "but why didn't she call? Something must be wrong—she should've called me by now." He brushed past the other man. "I have to go."

"Yamcha?" Puar floated out into the hallway, only to be brushed aside. "Yamcha, what are you going to do?" the cat asked after the tall fighter as he marched down the hall.

"Yamcha," Krillin called after him, but only heard the front door in response. He rubbed a hand over his shaved head in consternation before heading to the living room. "Well," he went to put on his jacket, "there goes my Saturday afternoon," he lamented.

"C'mon, Puar," he called from the front door. "Let's try to catch him before something else blows up."

* * *

><p>Goku's stomach growled. He glanced down at it with a slightly pained expression and sighed, shrugging his shoulders a little to alleviate the stiffness. In his arms he suspended the hulking base of the Capsule 3 spaceship over his head.<p>

"Almost done, Dr. Brief?" he asked. "I think it's lunch time."

The old man poked his head out from under the partially repaired support strut. "Just a bit longer now," he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, smudging some grease as he did. "And I'm sure the missus will be out here soon with something to eat," he slipped back under the ship and got back to work.

"I hope she comes soon," Goku felt another churning grumble in his gut. He focused his attention away from his stomach and over the horizon, sensing that his son and Piccolo had already started their training session without him. He gave a wistful sigh.

"Almost done now?" his tone had an optimistic turn.

"Not quite," Dr. Brief's response was muffled under the ship.

Goku sighed again, causing his arms to shift.

"Keep her steady, Goku," the doctor's voice resonated oddly from under the ship. "Drop it now and the whole support system could collapse. I've still got a few more kinks to work out."

Goku complied, holding his arms as still as he could while attempting to ignore his roiling appetite. "So," he started conversationally to keep his mind off it, "how high has Vegeta gone with the gravity simulator?"

"Hmm?" Dr. Brief's voice rumbled against the metal panelling. "Oh, it's really quite remarkable. Last I checked, he'd made it up to about four hundred seventy-five times Earth's gravity."

"What?" Goku looked a little startled. "Wow, that much? And here I felt one hundred was tough. I guess," he gave a small, determined smile, "I'll have to step up my own training a bit so I don't fall behind."

"Yes, that boy's determination is something else all right," Dr. Brief assented. "I do get worried he's overdoing it sometimes, though."

"Well, he can get pretty intense," Goku admitted, "but I don't think it's anything to worry about. He's pretty good at handling things himself."

"That's what I'm afraid of," the doctor began some adjustments to the interior gears with a ratchet. "Sure he's working hard, but at the rate he goes, he'll wear himself into the ground before we even know enough to try to help."

Goku scrunched his nose a little, thinking on the older man's words. "You . . . you're not just talking about his training, are you?"

"Could you slide that toolbox under here?" Dr. Brief extended a hand out from under the ship to point to a red box just out of his reach.

Goku tapped it slightly with his foot, and the doctor was able to grasp it by the handle and pull it under the ship to use.

"Sort of reminds me of some of my father's friends from the war, you know."

"Huh?" the Earth-bred Saiyan blinked. "War?"

"The Great War," Dr. Brief's head poked out from under the support strut, "the one between the thirteen sectors of the Coalition and the United Districts . . ."

"The who and the what now?"

"Surely you've learned some world history," the doctor rubbed a few smudges from his glasses with his lab coat. "You know, the continental battle, the establishment of the Furry dynasty . . ."

"Furry . . . oh, you mean the dog guy whose house King Piccolo stole?"

"Erm, yes, I suppose that's one way to remember the constitutional monarch of our planet," Dr. Brief blinked at him. "Anyway, my father worked with some of the top brass back in the day. He had this one old war buddy that—"

"Was he a fighter?" Goku interrupted.

"Hm? Goodness no," the doctor pulled out a screwdriver and began working on some of the exposed spring connecting joints. "My father was a scientist—been the family business for generations."

"Oh," Goku's tone sounded slightly disappointed.

"Anyway, sometimes he used to bring a few of his war buddies around for drinks or after a game of golf. I met a few of them when I was a boy, you see," the older man tightened one of the springs with a little effort. "There was one in particular—very reserved, sort of the strong, silent type. He was one of the generals, if I recall correctly." Dr. Brief set down the screwdriver and pulled on the joint slightly to check it. "Always had his own way of doing things. I used to think he was downright rude until my father explained what the man had gone through—apparently he saw some heavy combat," he gave a deep sigh before picking up a wrench and working some of the bolts. "Stays with a man, you know. Anyway, he was always going off on his own and kept to himself. Hardly gave me the time of day when I tried to talk to him. Fiercely independent too—wouldn't accept help even if he was clearly only hurting himself. Why, this one time—"

"Sweetie! I've got lunch ready for you!" Mrs. Brief smoothly sashayed across the lawn, shifting a full tray to one arm as she looked around. "Sweetie?" she peered down at her feet and caught sight of her husband. "Oh, there you are!"

"Is it lunch time already?" Dr. Brief lost his train of thought at the interruption and dragged himself out from under the base of the ship to examine the spread his wife carried. "I thought you were going to make sandwiches."

Mrs. Brief shrugged. "It was the darndest thing—I went to rustle some up, but it turns out we're all out of fixings."

"All of them?"

"Oh my, yes! No rolls, no deli meat, no cheese . . . so strange! I could have sworn we had some the last time I checked—but it's all right; I've got some warm soup for you and a fresh salad," she turned the tray to present it to her husband.

"_Grooooooooowwwwwl!_"

"Uh, Mrs. Brief," Goku looked a little sheepish at his stomach's demands, "you wouldn't happen to have any . . . extra, would you?"

"Oh, of course, Goku!" the blonde tilted her head to the side as she passed off the tray to the doctor. "After all you've done to help us, I couldn't possibly let you go hungry! Come on into the kitchen and I'll fix you something."

"All right!" Goku clapped his hands together, forgetting about the seven metric tonnes of spaceship he had been holding. It promptly fell on his foot with a thump that shook the yard.

Dr. Brief winced as he swallowed a crouton from his salad. "Careful now."

Goku managed to extract his foot from under the support strut with a little effort and a couple tears at the edges of his eyes.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Brief looked concerned. "Are you all right, Gok—"

"What happened? Is everything all right? Where is she?"

Goku managed to blink away the sting in his eyes to catch a glimpse of the newcomer to the compound. "Yamcha?"

The scarred fighter seemed to touch down on the lawn in a blur, and he had to take a few steps to stop his momentum. Tensed and ready, he turned his head to scan the area.

"Hold up, Yamcha!" another voice called out from above before dropping to the ground. Krillin caught up to his friend, Puar in tow.

"Where's Bulma?" Yamcha asked, still taking in the sight of the newly filled holes and trenches around the compound. The burnt scars and furrows he had been able to make out from the photo in the paper held a tightly packed filling of fresh dirt and soil. The singed palm fronds had been cleared away, and the yard looked more like it was undergoing mere renovations rather than having just barely survived an assault.

"She's off at a business retreat," Dr. Brief replied casually as he sat down beside the ship to take his lunch. He indicated the spot beside him, "You'd better sit down. It'll take a little while to explain."

* * *

><p>Three steps down the hallway, and she immediately turned around in the opposite direction.<p>

"I shouldn't . . . I mean, it's not exactly fair play."

Two more steps, then a pause.

"But if it's true," she raised a hand to her mouth, biting a little on her fingernail.

Another turn, and she took a few more steps back down the hallway.

"I have to," she insisted. "It's important."

Feynman stopped when she reached room 207, her hand hovering just inches from knocking. It shook slightly before she pulled it away abruptly and crossed her arms. "It's not really my business, though," she frowned. "I mean, it's between the bosses, right? So why should I get involved?"

She leaned against the doorframe, blowing her hair from her face in an irritated huff. "But if she doesn't know about it," her brow furrowed, "she might not be able to make the best decision. That would affect _my_ job . . . I think." The long, empty hallway echoed her doubt, bouncing the sound from one sturdy wooden door to the next. The decorative cedar panelling had no answer for her, and the slight creak in the floorboards beneath her feet was of little help.

"Ugh! Why did that stuck-up jerk have to pawn me off on the guy anyway?" she cast her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. "As if I'm not good enough to even talk to him! He's no genius—he's deranged! Passing me off to his assistant . . . of all the nerve . . ."

She shook her head. "But I don't want people to think I'm some sort of . . . some sort of rat!" she clenched a fist. "It's not like I went in _trying_ to pull information out of that guy! He just kept talking!" she pounded the wall behind her in frustration.

"What's going on out here?" the door to room 207 opened and blue head of hair peeked out. "Some sort of argument going on?"

Feynman stiffened, caught in the act of deliberating with herself. "Uh, no, Miss Brief," she held the offending fist nervously in her other hand. "Just . . . just me."

"What are you doing out here?" Bulma stepped out a little further.

"Well," Feynman hedged, "actually, I wanted to talk to you. It's . . . it's about Dan Wright."

* * *

><p>"So, you're saying that this whole thing is nothing for us to worry about," Krillin clarified.<p>

"That's right," Dr. Brief lit a cigarette.

Yamcha could not help but pass a sceptical eye over the older man.

Krillin shifted his weight as he continued. "And the energy blasts—"

"Vegeta's."

Black brows lowered, narrowing the eyes and crinkling a scar on the taller man.

"And that—well, whatever he was . . . he's gone now."

Dr. Brief took a slow drag before answering. "Vegeta took care of it."

Drawing his lips into a frown, Yamcha continued listening.

"And he's not coming back," Krillin tilted his head in inquiry.

"I'd seriously doubt it," the cat on the doctor's shoulder snuggled closer to his neck.

Yamcha crossed his arms.

"But just in case," Krillin gave a pointed look to his friend, "Goku moved his training with Gohan and Piccolo to be closer to here—that's why we saw him over here for lunch."

"Right. He's just outside the city now—somewhere in that direction, was it?" Dr. Brief pointed off to the west. "Checks up on us in the mornings too," he added.

Yamcha managed to disregard Krillin's insistent glance.

"And Vegeta?" the bald fighter pressed.

"Gone off for training," the doctor waved his hand in no particular direction.

"See, Yamcha?" Krillin put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Everything's under control here."

"Yeah, all taken care of," Yamcha's tone remained unconvinced. "Nice and neat," he tapped his foot against one of the freshly filled-in trenches.

Puar drifted a little closer to his old friend. "Well, I don't know about you, but I don't think there's anything you can do here but help patch the place up."

"We've gotten most of it done already. All I've got left to work on is the interior of this old girl," Dr. Brief tapped a hand against the hull of the Capsule 3 ship. He paused, glancing between the three of them. "I don't suppose any of you know your way around drive assembly reactors?"

Six eyes blinked blankly back at him.

Dr. Brief's shoulders slumped a little, agitating the black cat nestled by his neck. "I guess it's just us then, Scratch," he petted behind its ears.

"Well, I've got to head over to Master Roshi's," Krillin pulled up his jacket sleeve to reveal his watch. "I'm already about twenty-four hours overdue, and he's probably been waiting up for me." He drifted upward a few feet. "Catch you later then, Yamcha?"

Yamcha remained tense. "Yeah, see you."

With one last concerned glance at the taller fighter, Krillin took to the sky toward Roshi's island.

"Are you sure there isn't anything we can help out with?" Puar asked the doctor, determined to find some distraction to alleviate Yamcha's agitation.

"Unless you're prepared to deal with the inner workings of the gravity simulator, I haven't got anything. But the missus—" the old man turned a glance toward the flowerbeds where Mrs. Brief was working, bent over with her rounded posterior in the air, humming a tune to herself.

Yamcha blushed as the blonde gave a little shimmy while she planted another gardenia.

"I-I can go help her," Puar offered, giving Yamcha an out.

Yamcha nodded, turning away from the view of the woman's heart-shaped backside. "I think . . ." he took another look around at the compound, taking in the tracks of dirt that filled in the burnt trenches of the lawn again. On the far side of the yard, part of the wall still held a concave imprint, crumbling in a space the size of a man in its masonry. Behind him, a makeshift plastic cover had been placed over the window of the main building. "I think I need to clear my head. Unless," he gave a long, cautious glance at Dr. Brief, "there's something else you think I should know."

"Alien attack, reporter dead, alien dead, ship broken, Bulma off on business, Vegeta off on training, Goku on guard," Dr. Brief ticked off the points on his fingers. "No, I think that about covers it."

"And you're sure that there aren't any more of these aliens coming to attack the place?"

"Son, from what I could tell," Dr. Brief pushed a button the outside of the ship to lower the door-ramp, "that thing was only after Vegeta. Now, that boy isn't exactly the most forthcoming, so he may be training like he says, or he may be off doing who-knows-what, but whatever it is, I'm sure he's working on something to make sure this doesn't happen again."

"But you can't possibly be thinking he's gone off to try to . . . to _protect_ your house," Yamcha frowned.

"I tend to form my judgments based on the evidence in front of me," the doctor shrugged. "Whatever the reasoning, that's the end result of Vegeta's actions. Anything that's after Vegeta will follow him, and, as a result, my house stays safe. That's good enough for me."

"But Vegeta doesn't give a damn about this place!" Yamcha insisted. "I do! You should have called me when this happened."

"Don't see what good it would have done," Dr. Brief leaned a little on the frame of the entrance to the ship. "By the time I saw what had happened, the whole thing was over."

"But I—"

"Why don't you go take a walk, son," the older man suggested calmly. "There's no sense getting riled up over things you can't change." He pressed a button on the inside, and the ramp rose up to seal him inside.

Yamcha let out an irritated huff of air before shoving his hands into his pockets and exiting through the front gate. The late afternoon sun flashed through the spaces between the tall buildings as he crossed beyond each shadow along the street. A few cars sped by as he went farther from the Capsule compound into the more commercial district, and the office buildings gave way to smaller shops and cafés. A few people passed him, but gave him little notice as they entered the restaurants and bars to begin their Saturday evening.

"Maybe I'm overreacting," Yamcha muttered to himself as he passed a bistro setting up a sign for early dinner specials. "I mean, Puar and Krillin are right—if there's any house, any family on the planet who could handle something like this happening, it's the Briefs."

He shuffled his feet along the sidewalk, kicking a few pebbles into the cracks between the slabs of pavement. "But why didn't they—why didn't Bulma call me? Did she just . . . forget?"

"_What do you mean where am I? I'm at home. Why wouldn't I—oh_."

"_You forgot again_."

"_I'm sorry, Yamcha. I've just . . . I've been so busy . . ._"

Yamcha's shoulders sank further. "Wouldn't be the first time," he sighed. He veered a little to allow a couple to pass by him. Music flared up as he wandered by the entrance to a familiar café, and he had to step aside again to allow other city strollers to make their way around the outdoor tables.

_But_, he crossed his arms stubbornly, _this time it was really important! I mean, blowing off something like a movie night is one thing—but that reporter girl . . . how could Bulma just—just run off and go to business as usual after something like that?_

"_There's no sense getting riled up over things you can't change_."

_I know that_, he scowled at Dr. Brief's voice in his head. _I know that we can't do anything about it now, and that we can just wish her back when this whole thing blows over . . . but Bulma should have at least let me know. She shouldn't be trying to handle stuff like this on her own_, Yamcha turned a corner to head toward the public park. A few dog walkers were catching a break on a sloping hill while an elderly couple tossed bread toward some skittish ducks. Yamcha never took his eyes from the ground as he stepped onto one of the winding paths through the waving trees, only appearing aware of his surroundings as he stepped sidelong to avoid a few joggers.

"She should have contacted me for help," he insisted aloud. "Vegeta's a jerk, but even I know he's not stupid. He wouldn't have gone off on his own if it wasn't a real threat." He kicked a stone in anger. "Dammit, don't they see how serious this could be? The last time aliens landed—"

"Ouch! Hey, are you trying to kill m—Yamcha?"

The tall fighter snapped his head around at his name. "S-sorry about that! I didn't mean to—Zisha!" his eyes widened when he saw whom his wayward stone had struck.

The toned brunette was rubbing her shin through her jogging pants. "Well, hello to you too."

* * *

><p>"Dan Wright managed to lose over two hundred million in two years?"<p>

"That's what his assistant told me."

Bulma leaned back in her armchair, tapping the pads of her fingers against each other in thought. "And why would he tell you that?"

"He was . . ." Feynman rubbed her arm a little uncomfortably, "I think he was trying to impress me."

"Impress you," Bulma arched a brow, dubious.

"All right, he was trying to flirt with me," Feynman huffed in surrender.

"That . . . that has got to be the worst . . . I don't even know where to begin with that," Bulma was at a loss. "How could he think . . . why was he talking about his boss?"

"I'm pretty sure he was . . . well, he was trying to make him look bad," Feynman began to blush, "because I . . . I'd been trying to—er, get to know Mr. Wright a little better."

"Get to know is right," Bulma smirked knowingly. "You even threw Sankey at me to get him alone."

"Yeah, well, I definitely owe him one after last night," Feynman crossed her long legs. "I didn't get to talk to Dan Wright for five minutes before he shoved me over to his assistant," she frowned. "Sankey was right all along—but don't you dare tell him that!" she amended quickly.

"Promise," Bulma perfunctorily made a zipping motion over her lips. "So, you were interested in Dan Wright, but he blew you off and his assistant took a liking to you."

Feynman mumbled something incoherent as she stared at the ground fixedly.

"What was that?"

"I said he wouldn't stop staring at my legs," her ears burned bright red under her fair hair. "I kept trying to get away from him and start another conversation with Mr. Wright, but he kept cutting me off and throwing out his boss' bad habits."

"And this is how you found out about the unauthorized speculative trades?"

"He said Mr. Wright had a gambling problem," Feynman explained. "When I told him I didn't care, he said that he used company money to do it—I didn't know what he was talking about and he went into this whole story about how if it weren't for him, Wright Materials would have a value in the negatives."

"So the assistant's been cooking the books for the boss," Bulma put a finger to her lip in thought, "trying to cover up their losses so they can ask for more than they're worth."

"A lot more from the sound of it," Feynman went on. "From what that chatterbox told me, the company still hasn't recovered from what Wright did when his father put him in charge of the overseas branch. What started off as a loss of twenty thousand hidden away in some secret account ballooned up into hundreds, thousands—"

"Two hundred million, you said," the heiress' blue eyes narrowed. "If it hasn't been fixed over time, by now that would be about . . ." her voice drifted off as she calculated the percentages. A small smile crossed her lips. _Flaw targeted_, she thought wryly. _Now to neutralize the problem_. "Maybe we should let Mr. Wright know that we're on to his numbers game—make him stop playing hard to get."

"Say what?" Feynman skewed her brow. "You still want to go after him? But he's such a—"

"No, no, no," Bulma waved her hand dismissively. "I don't want him. I want access to Wright Materials' synthetics division—unlimited access. And knowing this," she grinned, "he'll have to hand it over to me for almost nothing. Good work, Feynman—you deserve a bonus after something like this," she reached down beside the chair to pick up her purse.

"Oh, I-I couldn't," the blonde scientist stammered a little as she watched her boss set the black leather bag on her lap. "I mean, I just happened to hear it, is all . . ."

"Don't worry, I won't be giving you one."

"What?" Feynman deadpanned.

Bulma dug into her purse and pulled out a pack of cards. "_I_ can't give you a bonus—not for what essentially counts as spying on the other company. Of course, I won't have to," she pulled out the deck and began to shuffle it, "if we play our cards right."

Feynman winced at the pun. "How do you think?"

"You said Wright likes to gamble?" Bulma finished a riffle and bridged the deck. "Well, I've never known a gambler to pass up a high-stakes poker table at a casino night—even if it is just a little one between companies on retreat." She began to deal out the cards. "Tell me, Feynman," she glanced up at the other woman, "how good are you at calculating probabilities?"

* * *

><p>The ground was cold as he knelt, feeling the sting of it deep in his bones. The exposed skin of his neck, arms, and face went slightly numb, and he could see the wisps of his warm breath around the edge of his nose.<p>

"Vegeta," a deceptively soft voice remarked, echoing in the rounded room, "good. I was beginning to think you'd keep me waiting."

"Sire," his teeth clenched as the word drifted on a cloud of exhaled air and dissipated.

The sound of his clipped acknowledgement resonated dimly against the edges of the nearly empty room. The walls were unadorned but for a few screen panels that remained blank, and a large black chair stood in the middle, grounded and vacant. The circular window at the far end of the room displayed an endless depth of stars, stretching onward until the pinpricks of light disappeared into the darkness. Before it stood the horned shape of its master, surveying the expanse with mild interest.

"You completed your last mission in record time," he turned his pale face slowly toward the kneeling boy. "I heard there wasn't even a moon on this planet."

Vegeta held his eyes firmly upon him, refusing to look down. "Transformation wasn't necessary on this mission," he stated confidently. The red beads of the tyrant's eyes narrowed a little at the tone, and the boy found himself amending his statement with a perfunctory, "Lord Frieza."

"I see," Frieza raised his chin, appeased. "So you've managed to improve your skills even in your base form. I heard you refused to transform on the last few missions as well, rather than wait for the full moon." The faint glow from the distant stars outside the window served as the primary source of light in the room, and as he turned, his face fell in shadow while his dark horns gleamed around the edges. He began to take slow, measured steps from his view at the window, obliquely making his way with each three-toed foot clicking lightly on the cool tile. Circling slightly around the small boy, he trailed his long, purple-capped tail behind him with a sinuous hiss.

"Clever, that," black lips pulled into a small smile, and though he had drawn closer, the low volume of his voice had yet to change. "Improving your base form will undoubtedly maximize your potential when you do see fit to transform." Sidelong, he worked his way across the room to slide close to the small prince, looming over him as he did. Vegeta refused to take his eyes away from those red irises as they edged nearer.

Frieza raised a curious brow-ridge at the boy, sizing him up with half clinical scrutiny, half amusement. He stood there for a few moments, peering into the child's dark eyes with a sort of distant curiosity before raising a black-nailed hand.

The young prince inhaled sharply, shifting his attention to the movement, ready to brace himself against an assault.

"Clever, clever boy," Frieza settled his hand gently under Vegeta's chin, stroking the edge of it with his thumb as he continued to peer down at the little onyx orbs burning back at him. "Not a common trait among your kind, I must say," he shifted his hand and slid one finger along the child's jaw, tracing a path with his dark-coated nail.

Vegeta remained completely still, staunchly resisting the urge to shiver in that near frozen room, his skin almost sticking to the chilled finger that trickled past his throat and settled just below his ear.

Frieza continued his circle, walking behind the boy while his tail coiled around his feet. Unwilling to relent and turn his head to look behind him, Vegeta's eyes warily watched the pink appendage on the floor as it slipped past his bent knee, languid as though it were stirring from sleep.

"To think," Frieza's finger brushed the back of his neck at the hairline, "an intelligent Saiyan. You are a rare find indeed, Vegeta. You have no idea how much I can appreciate a standalone talent such as yours."

As he took a few more steps around him, Vegeta felt the smooth scales of his tail caress his knee, heavy and slow. He had little time to think on it, however, before Frieza spoke again, this time bringing his lips close to where his hand stayed on his neck.

"You see," his breath puffed out small clouds of vapour that tickled against the back of his ear, "we're not so very different, you and I . . ."

* * *

><p>Vegeta snapped awake in a sweat. Panting, he leaned forward with his eyes alert, darting from one side to the other, checking his surroundings. His hand slid on the ground beside him and he clenched his fist, pulling up a tuft of grass. On his other side, he felt the firm, rounded shape of a metal helmet.<p>

_Helmet . . . the Tritekian . . . the ship . . ._ his thoughts began to order themselves. His gloved hand slid over the curved surface, displacing some of the condensation that had accumulated in the cool air. The wind brushed against his face, and it felt chilled a second time.

He shook his head and pushed himself upward, taking in the darkened sky above him. The leaves in the thicket in which he was hiding rustled, and the wind carried the sound of human voices calling to one another. A low rumble resonated behind the brush surrounding him. He peered through the leaves.

"That's a wrap, boys. Pack it in!" a foreman was waving over from an idling truck.

"Finally," the one named Kurt grumbled. "Almost thought they were going to make us work in the dark," he cleared off the work table, rolling up documents and shoving some filing folders into a box. "You finish with those tests, Frank?"

"Just about," the larger man called out, checking some schematics. "Negative, negative," he ticked off his clipboard, "and negative! All done—right on schedule too."

"That's a first," Kurt looked legitimately surprised. "Help me pack up the equipment, would you? I want to make it home in time to catch an episode of Star Jaunt."

"I thought they were just reruns," Frank piled some Geiger counters into a box and started winding up the wires.

"Original series is. But Star Jaunt: the Next Genesis has a couple new ones out," Kurt opened up the back of the nearby van and placed his box inside.

"Yeah, but Next Genesis doesn't have Captain Dirk—and I'll take Dirk over Perrault any day," Frank loaded his box next to Kurt's.

"You shut your dirty mouth," Kurt glared at him. "Jean Claude Perrault is twice the captain Dirk ever was."

"Are you kidding?" Frank leaned on the box he had just placed, giving his partner an incredulous look. "Dirk got way more alien booty than Perrault—and he actually fought the monsters."

"And endangered his crew every chance he got," Kurt insisted, shoving an accusing finger against Frank's chest. "Perrault's at least responsible—he's always looking out for his men."

"Puh—leez," Frank rolled his eyes. "He just sits in the captain's chair giving orders, and his men are the ones going into danger. Dirk's a go-to kind of guy. He was the one planet-side, destroying man-lizards and saving the ship and stuff. Perrault's a wimp."

"Take that back!" Kurt jabbed his partner hard enough to make him stumble. "Perrault saves countless lives with his tactics while Dirk's out there playing space cowboy!"

Frank fell backwards, taking the box with him. It bounced off his chest and tumbled toward the nearby crater, spilling several wires and Geiger counters onto the ground. They stopped just next to the edge of the basin, almost touching the wavering barrier.

"Jeez, Kurt," Frank sat up, rubbing the back of his head gingerly. "I give in. Go team Perrault."

Kurt gave a scoffing sort of snort, but helped Frank back up nonetheless. "And don't you forget it."

"Didn't know you were so into it." Frank started picking up the spilt supplies. "Next time I'll be sure to—ouch!" He snapped his hand back from the last Geiger counter sharply when a white-hot jolt struck.

The barrier fluctuated slightly and sent out a few more electric aftershocks as if in warning.

"Just leave it," Kurt ushered his partner back to the van. "We still haven't figured out how to get close to the thing yet. We'll try to get it back tomorrow with some equipment—whatever's left of it, anyway."

Frank gave another glance at the smoking remains of the device before turning toward the van and closing the back of it, wincing when he used his right hand. "Man, that smarts," he put it up to his mouth to suck on the burn.

"Just be glad you weren't that close to it," Kurt stepped into the driver's side of the vehicle as his partner got in the other side. "Remember what happened to Gabby's truck?" He shut the door and the two of them joined the convoy in its exodus from the area.

Vegeta locked his gaze on the last bit of dust that arose from behind the line of trucks and vans before returning to the wavering barrier surrounding the crater. Although the sun had already slipped past the horizon, the area was dimly lit by the pulsating aura around the strange ship, and it cast a faint and unnatural blue-white glow upon the brush and grass surrounding it. The remaining tents and more permanent fixtures the technicians had left behind threw undulating shadows out in the fluctuating light. A few residual sparks laced around the fallen Geiger counter near the edge of the basin, warning against any attempted proximity. Vegeta narrowed his eyes.

_Defences are triggered when something gets too close_, he surmised as he watched another bout of flickering electricity spread round the device. _That would mean that any patrol the humans might have set up would have to make their rounds at a safe distance_, he scanned the area, calculating the space from where he had seen the humans set up their equipment out of range. _About a metre and a half_, he judged, examining where the charred Geiger counter lay smoking.

He picked up the helmet sitting beside him, pressing the button on the side and making the visor flash to life. With a distasteful shrug he put it over his head, flattening his hair uncomfortably on his neck. The visor blipped a few more signals to him.

Through the lens, the pulsating light of the ship's shielding appeared solid, and, after a few clicks, Vegeta found a setting that scanned the domed area, allowing his first true glimpse inside. Sitting in the centre of the crater, the ship was a smooth, oblong triangle with a long, tapered nose and wings that barely protruded from the back. At various points on the ship's hull, glowing white nodes pulsed out an energy signal upward, and the beams stretched several feet above it before spreading into a series of interlocking discs of energy that completed the domed shield.

_A lot like that shield the Tritekian used in our fight to deflect my attack_, Vegeta passed a familiar eye over the rounded plating, shifting his wounded shoulder under his armour at the memory. He scrutinised the domed shielding from top to bottom, examining the nexus of circular panels, noting where each section originated on the body of the ship. The view from behind the visor ran the statistics of the shielding and its approximate power. _But I'm not seeing any access codes_, he scowled.

He pressed the button on the side of the visor again, only to reveal the same sets of statistics he had seen before. _Damn_, his teeth clenched. _It must require some other device the Tritekian had on him_. He let out an irritated breath, recalling the scaled alien's final grin before he had been obliterated. _Whatever it was, that option's shot_.

"—sure you don't want to join the draft this year? Good odds you could get a decent team together."

"Nah, I lost too much money last time. I'm gonna sit this one out."

Vegeta crouched low behind the brush, setting the helmet's scouter on silent with a quick tap of the button. The figures ran in front of his eyes as he watched two men walk around the perimeter of the crater, taking their time.

_Uniforms_, he discerned through the dim lighting, keeping low in his cover. _First watch took a while to get here. There must not be too many of them walking around._

"Aww, come on. It won't be that bad. I'll help you out," one of the uniformed patrol officers patted the other on the back. "All you gotta do is keep an eye on the stats."

"Yeah, but I don't really have the time for fantasy baseball," the other folded his arms as they continued to make their rounds. "They keep putting me on these back-to-back shifts. I barely get any time away from work."

"What?" the first officer looked appalled. "They can't book you on more than one shift like that. You've gotta talk to the union rep."

"You think it'll help?" the second man looked hopeful as they began to check one of the tents left behind from the scientists' earlier set-up.

"Yeah. You've been paying the dues, right?" the first shone a flashlight through the tent-flap before turning to his companion.

"Yeah. But—"

"But nothin'," the first officer directed his flashlight to the ground in front of them as they walked on ahead. "You may be new, but if you're paying dues, then they'll take care of you. Listen, all you gotta do is tell 'em how they're treating you and then . . ." his voice faded as the two patrolmen headed away.

_I should have some time before they come back_, Vegeta encapsulated the duffle bag he had brought with him and tucked it back into his armour. He checked the scouter in the helmet and reset it to visualize lower levels, noting the distance reading beneath the two marks that had popped up with a measure of five from the direction the two guards had headed. _But I don't want to run the risk of them alerting anyone while I work. Without some sort of access code, I'll have to go in the low-tech way, and that could take a while_, Vegeta set the helmet to scan the shield again.

The circular pattern was clustered up toward the front, protecting the windowed cockpit, and began to spread as his eyes trailed over the ship toward the back. As the nodes became separated on the body of the ship, the shield-discs flattened and expanded to cover the increased area on the wings and tail. Checking the energy output on each sector of the ship, Vegeta paused his examination when he came to the node on the left side of the ship's rear. It flickered slightly.

_Or maybe not_, the corner of his mouth rose in satisfaction, _since someone seems to have neglected to check his tail light . . ._

* * *

><p>AN: Sorry about the enormous wait on this, guys. The chapter just kept coming, so I decided to split it. That plus personal issues and losing my job and then family emergencies, and my writing started to slow down a bit. I'm still truckin', though.<p>

I know, I know, B and V are _still_ not in the same room yet. I promise, they will be soon. We're nearing the end of what I've affectionately deemed the "Bond Sections," where I rip shamelessly from Bond movies and pretend I'm doing research by watching a young Sean Connery's suave, sexy self. After the Bond Section comes the "confined in a spaceship section" (title pending), so cool your jets. They'll get enough time together eventually. It's not like you don't know how this will end, anyway—I did say it was canon, after all.

While the names of minor characters in this are not really full-blown puns, I do try to play a little with them. Frank and Kurt both have names that refer to their manner of speech (there's also reference to a "Gabby," another speech-based name), and I hope everyone noticed that they are both Trekkies . . . or should I say Jaunties?

Tell me what you think! ^_^


	8. Look Alive

CHAPTER 8 – Look Alive

Disclaimer: Don't own it—just toying with it.

* * *

><p><em>Looks like he had a chink in his armour after all<em>, Bulma grinned as she walked through the double doors. The hotel had outdone itself in transforming the rustic great hall into a veritable casino. In the centre, Bulma heard several shouts as an employee rolled a six and two at a long craps table. The spinning of roulette wheels reached her ears, and she saw the flash of red and black from each of the corners. Several waiters and waitresses wove their way through the milling groups of Wright Materials and Capsule Corporation staff alike, serving drinks, hors d'ouvres, and cigarettes in their black and whites. Green felt-covered tables lined the walls where hotel staff dressed in black vests dealt cards for blackjack and poker. _And who would have thought my assistant would have already set up the perfect trap for him without even knowing it?_

"Miss Brief," Bulma's attention was caught by Feynman's voice. "There you are!" the blonde technician walked as quickly as she could in her heels over to her boss. "I was wondering when—crap, am I under-dressed?" The thin woman looked dismayingly between her short blue cocktail dress and Bulma's sleek gown. "I knew it was kind of a formal thing, but I don't have any long dresses. Am I showing too much leg?"

Bulma swished the red fabric of her own dress to reveal an extended slit up to her thigh. "Hardly," she winked. "What you've got on is perfect. The more the boys are distracted, the better."

"All right," Feynman gave another tug at her hemline, "but are you sure this will work?"

"You've got the cues memorized, right?" Bulma asked, and the other woman nodded. "Then we should be fine. You follow my signals, keep the numbers straight, and watch how the others handle it."

"Got it," Feynman was still fidgeting with her dress.

"Hey," Bulma put a hand to her accomplice's shoulder, "relax. You'll do fine," she smiled. "You've got the head for it—just keep it in the game."

"Right," Feynman seemed to shake off her nervousness in the presence of her boss' confidence. "Keep tabs on the cards, keep tabs on the faces," she reiterated to herself.

"Exactly," Bulma scoped out the tables along the wall, searching for a suitable candidate. "I'll set us up over there," she pointed to one of the larger poker tables near the centre, "and let the dealer know we're in for a high stakes game only. Your job is to—"

"—get Wright's assistant to come over," Feynman finished for her. "If he's playing, he won't try to stop Mr. Wright from joining in."

"And you're sure you can keep his attention?"

"Positive," the blonde brushed back a few stray hairs behind her ear. "I can probably get a decent read on him too."

"Perfect," Bulma nodded. "If he's anything like my assistant, he's got some control over the finances, and we don't want him trying to get Mr. Wright to play the tight-wad. Make sure he's preoccupied . . . maybe sit next to him."

Feynman's nose wrinkled. "I was afraid you might suggest that."

"Better that he focus on you rather than the cards," Bulma pointed out. "We want him distracted, and if you can read his expression pretty well already, that'll give us a higher chance of knowing how to bet," she moved her head a little to the side to indicate that they should move toward the exchange counter. "Do you think you might know someone else that would be an easy read?" she asked as they walked.

"Sankey," Feynman answered with no hesitation. "He's got no poker face whatsoever."

"You sure?" Bulma forced down a knowing smile.

"I've been working with him so long I can read him like a book," the blonde scientist stated confidently.

"All right," Bulma opened up her clutch when she reached the counter, pulling out several large bills and handing them over. "I'll grab Mark then."

Feynman had to choke back a squawk at the sum of money she had just seen change hands. "You're going to let him in on it?" she recovered her voice.

"Are you kidding?" Bulma laughed as the hotel employee handed her an orderly box of chips in exchange for her cash. "And miss watching him squirm? Not a chance," she divvied up the chips and handed some over to Feynman. "He'll be playing, but I'm not telling him a thing. I just want to put the odds more in our favour."

"So we can determine who's got a good hand for five out of . . . six? I mean, if no one else joins in?"

"Only six chairs," Bulma pointed out as she collected her box. "I've known Mark for years—it'll be easy for me to tell when he's bluffing. Just remember the signals, and I'll let you know what kind of odds we're looking at."

"And then I'll know when to bet what," Feynman clutched her chips.

"You got it. And this way, you'll be getting a raise," Bulma brushed some of her long, blue curls from her shoulder, "and I'll be sending Dan Wright a message."

* * *

><p>"And then <em>pow<em>! Took one right in the face," Zisha laughed, taking hold of her tall coffee cup and adjusting the plastic lid. "Right here," she tapped her fist up to her left cheek, smooshing the skin and distorting her face.

"Uh huh," Yamcha put a cardboard sleeve over his drink. "Tell me again how you got me into this?"

"Hey, you hit a girl with a rock fast enough to put a hole in her shin, and you're required to buy her a drink," Zisha shrugged. "It's the rules."

"I'm really sorry about that," Yamcha's face flushed slightly. "I didn't mean to—"

"Don't worry about it. Nothing says sorry like a triple shot double chocolate peppermint mocha with whipped cream and chocolate shavings," she took a seat by the window and kicked out the opposite chair in invitation. "Besides, I haven't seen you in a while, and you looked like you needed to get something off your chest."

"I'm fine, really," Yamcha denied, but after a few more moments of standing awkwardly beside the open table, he took a seat anyway.

"You sure?" Zisha gave him a sceptical look as his eyes refused to meet hers. The café was not all that crowded, but it still had a number of people waiting for their drink orders at the bar. A few students were seated at a larger table in the corner, complaining over their stacks of books and notes about unjust double midterms while a few solitary writers clacked away on their laptops under the red, low-hanging lamps. Yamcha took a sip of his drink, keeping his gaze fixed on the assorted tea display in the centre.

"Because I could swear you've been avoiding me."

Yamcha swallowed. "What?" he forced down a gulp of his coffee. "No, I . . . I wouldn't do—I wouldn't say it was . . . well, I . . ." he fumbled.

"I haven't seen you at practice at all," Zisha continued, fiddling with a plastic tab on the lid of her drink, "and I know that you weren't getting all that much out of my teaching, but I just . . . I feel horrible that I convinced you to pay for lessons you can't use."

"It's no problem, honest," Yamcha held up his hands in defence. "You don't have to worry about the money. I've just been a little busy recently, you know . . . with uh, work and all . . ."

One of Zisha's brows rose in doubt. "But baseball season's over."

"Uh, did I say work? I meant . . ." Yamcha pulled at his collar nervously. "What I mean to say is . . ."

Behind the bar, a barista started the blender, whirring and grinding a disruptive racket during the pregnant pause. Zisha levelled her eyes at Yamcha, unaffected by the clamour.

"Well, the truth is," Yamcha crumbled under the scrutiny of her brown eyes, "I . . . I've been having some problems with my—my girlfriend," he shrank a little at the confession.

"You mean Bulma Brief?"

"Y-yeah," he blinked at her, surprised. "How did you—"

"I read the papers," Zisha shrugged. "You're not exactly low-profile in this town, are you?" she smiled at him. "I mean, I didn't really recognize you when I first met you—I've only just moved out here from South City, you know—but it only took a few days for me to match the name to the face."

"Oh," Yamcha responded eloquently. "Then you know that we—"

"—haven't been spending a lot of time together because she's been put in charge of that big company her family runs. Yeah, you can't miss it—that story's even been running in the sports sections," Zisha took a sip of her drink. "That's how I found out about it, anyway."

"You didn't happen to look in today's papers, did you?" Yamcha asked.

"No, why?" she looked at him in concern. "Did something happen?"

"Um, not really," Yamcha glossed over it. "I was just wondering how much you were reading about me."

"Well, it's not like I check up on every article with your name in it or anything," Zisha rushed out in a breath.

Yamcha tilted his head a little in confusion at the flush he noticed in her cheeks.

"I just," she tossed her ponytail over her shoulder in an agitated motion, "I can just relate, is all."

"Relate?"

"You're not the only one who has problems with privacy in a big town like this. Kickboxing champion, remember?" she pointed to herself with her thumb. "Why do you think I moved from South City?"

"Because they have a horrible baseball team?" he joked.

She laughed, a full laugh from deep in her chest that resonated through her, making her hand tremble over her coffee cup. Yamcha found himself smiling at the infectious sound of it. He watched as her long ponytail swished with her shaking shoulders, glinting in the ruddy light of the café.

"Well, it's not like the Taitans did much better than the Dragons did," Zisha managed to control her shaking. "You guys didn't make it very far past the playoffs."

"You actually saw that?"

"Oh, it was painful," she gave an exaggerated grimace. "The way Sal Menendez just choked, I could hardly watch. What?" she asked at the odd expression on Yamcha's face.

"Oh, nothing," he snapped his attention down to his drink sheepishly. "It's just that I don't really talk to a lot of people about the work I do." He recalled when he had bumped into Krillin the day before, and the polite but feigned interest he had shown.

"Really?" she tilted her head in inquiry. "I would think with your stats, you'd be all they talk about."

"Well, my friends aren't really all that into baseball," he admitted, still staring into the lid of his coffee. "They're more in the martial arts circuit."

"You're not part of that whole World Martial Arts Tournament crowd, are you?" she narrowed her eyes on his face.

"Um," Yamcha looked uncomfortable as her brown eyes scrutinized him, "would it be bad if I said yes?"

"I knew it," Zisha snapped her fingers suddenly, "I knew recognized you from somewhere before. You're that . . . what was it? That Wolf Fang guy?"

"Y-yeah, the Wolf Fang Fist," he filled in for her. "But how did you—were you at the tournaments?"

"The twenty-second is the only one I saw all the way through," she admitted. "But the techniques I saw were amazing."

"Were you entered in it? I don't remember seeing you," Yamcha scratched his head.

"Oh, no. My dad was in it," Zisha explained. "Of course, he never really made it past the preliminaries . . ." her eyes fell a little, and she tore a little piece off her cardboard sleeve, "but he always let me come and check out a few of the rounds when he went. You aren't thinking of entering the next one, are you?"

"That's in three years, right?" Yamcha counted on his fingers. "Nah, I've got . . . um, a different sort of fight coming up around that time. Why, are you?"

"Well, my dad's been pushing me to enter," she toyed with the cardboard sleeve of her drink. "Thinks I could pick up where he left off, you know?"

"But . . ." Yamcha picked up on the hesitation in her voice.

"But . . . well, have you seen these guys that are planning on entering? They're just . . . ugh, I can't stand them!" she blew some hair from eyes in irritation. "They're awful! They're all posturing and show and just . . . of all the macho, meat-headed . . . ugh!" her shoulders tensed up as words failed her.

"That bad, huh?" Yamcha tried to hold back a smile at her flustered actions.

"Worse," she gripped her cup. "Have you ever heard of this guy named Hercule Satan?"

* * *

><p>A white boot slid down the slight slope, scuffing up dust and driving a small trench into the soft grass. A few footfalls fell in the dark, hardly making a sound as they skipped from shadow to shadow. The undulating light from the pulsating barrier splashed the outlines of the remaining tents and tables onto the uneven ground.<p>

Vegeta crouched low into the shadow of a tent, determining the distance from his location and the edge of the shield. A few signals from the visor of the helmet he wore gave a faint glow, silently indicating the location of two very minor power levels. A couple more flashes, and he had the grid of the entire shield cover laid out before his eyes. The next few steps he took were almost a blur as he rushed to the opposite end of the ship, not even slowing enough to leave footprints behind.

He ducked beside a workstation table, hardly afforded any cover this close to the domed shield. The slow flashes of light bathed his skin in a pale hue, brightening the white of his armour and glinting off the metal of the helmet before dropping back into the darkness that obscured him from view. He narrowed his eyes as he peered through the schematics displayed on the visor.

_This will take some fine-tuned energy manipulation_, he traced his gaze over the faint edges between the discs of energy that made up the protective layer of the dome. _If the blast lasts for too long, or I use too much power behind it, it will alert anyone looking for me to my location_. He hazarded a glance up to the sky as if to check for pursuers. _It'll have to be quick. I can't run the risk of detection—or of triggering any additional defences this ship might have._

The helmet projected more information to him, detailing the locations of the nodes that sourced the energy for the shield. He focused his attention on the rear left, watching as it flickered at somewhat regular intervals. _I'll have to time it right_, he scanned the outline of the discs in front of him, _and use a blast that will cut through and open up the shield just enough to let me through._ He frowned. _Anything else, and there's no telling what that fish-faced freak's got geared up for intruders_.

Vegeta took a breath, running one last check of the surrounding area. At the sight of only two low levels at the opposite end of the crater, he prepped his hand. The node flickered again.

The blast that shot out was barely a ribbon of light that sped from his fingers and pierced the space between the two discs.

He crossed the distance with a leap, simultaneously spreading the thin lance of energy he had shot to fan open and allow him passage. As he dove through the opening, crackles of electricity converged at the opening, only to be halted by the ring of his own energy. He tucked his chin at the arc of his dive, rolling to the ground just as the barrier closed behind him.

When he turned to check the shield, no indication of his entry remained, save for an angry few flashes of electricity.

_Phase one down without complications_, he mentally noted, rising up to stand. He turned his attention to the ship and began heading towards it with a few more silent steps when a slightly burnt smell reached his nose. With a sniff, he gazed down at his feet.

_Well, almost no complications_, his lips thinned in irritation at the sight of his singed boot.

* * *

><p>"I don't even know if I should be thinking about her that way," Sankey heaved a sigh and propped his head up on one hand. "I mean, she's my co-worker. It's just too complicated."<p>

"Uh huh," the bartender slid a gin and tonic over to him.

"It's not like we have a lot of time for a relationship, either," Sankey shifted on his stool, resting the heels of his dress shoes on one of the rungs. "We don't really see each other when we're not at work."

The bartender rinsed out a few wine glasses. "Uh huh."

"And she's not exactly nice to me," Sankey took a drink. "Well, most of the time. Sometimes she can be really funny—in a sarcastic, teasing kind of way."

"Uh huh."

"And I kind of look forward to when we argue about something," Sankey peered into the carbonated bubbles in his glass. "She definitely makes work exciting when I'm teamed up with her."

The bartender began wiping down a section of the countertop. "Uh huh."

"And she's so smart—like, crazy smart," Sankey's expression grew animated. "She does these calculations for our projects sometimes, you know. Really complex ones that take me at least a minute to do on paper, and she does them all in her head."

"Uh huh," the bartender picked up another glass and started cleaning it with a towel.

"And I'm no slouch at math," Sankey insisted, "but she's in a league of her own sometimes. I just don't know what I can do to match up."

The bartender gave him a mildly interested glance up from his glass.

"She's got all this stuff going for her. I mean, she's gorgeous," Sankey went on.

The bartender just leaned back with an amused look on his face.

"And let's not forget about how smart she is," Sankey reiterated.

The bartender folded his arms as his smile grew.

"And she's great to work with," Sankey continued, ticking traits off with his fingers. "And she's a good friend, and she's—"

"Uh huh." The bartender's smug expression never wavered.

"—right behind me, isn't she?" Sankey deadpanned.

"Sankey!" a slender hand fell on his shoulder. "There you are!"

The bartender gave one last smirk before he turned to take someone else's order.

"H-hey, Feynman," Sankey crumpled up a napkin awkwardly. "Been there long?"

"What are you talking about? I just found you," she gave him a confused look. "Now come on and play some poker with me," she slid her hand from his shoulder to his arm and yanked him off his seat.

"W-what? Poker?" Sankey barely managed to get the words out as he was dragged through the other bar patrons to the gaming tables. He took one look at the chip denominations on the tables and paled. "Feynman, you know I don't have the kind of money to be gambl—"

"Don't worry about it," Feynman casually brushed it off. "I'll make sure everything turns out okay. Now come on," she tugged on his arm again. Feynman forced their way through the crowd with all the subtlety of a tank, splitting between couples and breaking up conversations while Sankey lagged behind with a few quick words of apology. "There's one more person we need to get for the high stakes table."

"High stakes?" Sankey's voice rose in pitch. "Now wait a minute, you don't expect me to—"

"Look," Feynman whirled on him, "I've got to get this schmuck to sit next to me for the whole game," she jabbed her thumb behind her to indicate a rather round man with an obnoxious laugh, "and you are _not_ leaving alone with him," her terse whisper came out more like a threat.

Sankey peered over her shoulder to look at the man in question. He was relatively non-descript but for his slick, black hair and beady eyes. "What's wrong with him?" he asked curiously. "And if you don't like him, why does he have to play?"

"Just come on," Feynman insisted, pulling him behind her. Their movement caught the man's attention, and he gave a broad smile as he turned to greet them.

"Ah, Miss Feynman," his glance dropped from her face to her legs. "How nice to see you again."

Sankey frowned at him as he watched the man's eyes slowly travel back upward. His understanding of Feynman's distaste for him was instant.

"Would you like to join us for a game of poker?" Feynman had trouble returning a polite smile, but forced her way through it. "We've already got one started at a table."

"With you?" he moved a little toward her. "Why, I'd love to."

Sankey edged himself a little closer to Feynman's side, never taking his eyes off the man.

"Good," Feynman wasted no time, "come on then," she broke away from the both of them, walking briskly toward the outer tables

The two men exchanged glances at her abrupt departure before quickly following suit.

She led them past the spinning roulette wheels to the edge of the great hall, where a row of felt-covered tables await them. She paused for them to catch up before gesturing them over to the central table, where a familiar head of blue hair waited.

Around one edge of the table, Bulma Brief sat with several towers of chips in front of her, a relaxed and confident expression on her face. Beside her, Dan Wright looked as impassive as ever, checking his watch and absently twirling a chip between his fingers. To his right, Mark waved them over in their direction with a broad smile on his face, talking animatedly to Dan Wright in-between his summons.

"—said they'd be coming, and here they are! I knew we'd have enough people to play," the group caught the part of his conversation with the head of Wright Materials, "but I had no idea Sankey was coming too—he's another one of my technicians in R and D, you know. Project leader on the last one, if I remember right."

Sankey gave a small wave.

Dan Wright only gave a nod to the group as they approached.

"And who's this?" Mark glanced over at Feynman and Sankey's new companion. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Mark Pareto," he stood up and extended his hand. "Head scientist for Capsule Corporation."

"Russell Levy," the man cast a wary eye over the large amount of money in front of his employer. "I work as Mr. Wright's assistant in . . . most matters."

"Well, come on, come on," Mark gestured to the three remaining seats. "Let's get the game started."

Feynman immediately took her place beside Levy, forcing Sankey to sit at her right, directly across from Bulma. He set down a small amount of chips from his pocket, immediately casting an uneasy eye around the table at the other, significantly taller, stacks, and looked like he was about to shrink in his seat as he glanced between the two company heads. Bulma gave him a reassuring smile and wink.

"The game is hold 'em," the dealer announced his presence with a shuffle of the deck, "high stakes, no limit—as per request," his eye fell on the bosses' side of the table.

"No limit?" Levy sputtered, whipping his head round to face Dan Wright. "But, sir, you really—"

"Relax," Bulma dismissed his complaints with a wave. "It's just a little game between friends—and we both know that our companies have enough to go around," she gave a beatific smile to Wright, "isn't that right?"

Wright continued twirling his chip between his fingers.

"Besides, if things get too hot, there's no shame in leaving the table with your money at hand," Bulma pressed.

Dan Wright's expression, as ever, remained blank.

"I personally think having this much at stake is exciting," Feynman crossed her legs in Levy's direction, "don't you agree?"

The movement did not go unnoticed. Levy took a breath as he watched the hemline of her dress, his flushed face relaxing into a more interested leer. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

"Let's just get this game started," Sankey grumbled, scowling at Levy.

* * *

><p>"He said that? Really? Man, that guy sounds like too much," Yamcha laughed.<p>

"And he's not the only one," Zisha continued. "Half the guys there give me a hard time just because I'm a girl. Better head home, little lady," she imitated a gruff voice, puffing up her chest and putting on a mock-serious face, "and stick to your quilting bee's 'cause this here is no place for amateurs!"

Yamcha chuckled again. "Did you at least give them one to the gut on your way out?"

"Oh, I beat a few of them," Zisha raised her coffee cup, "but it didn't seem to change their minds very much. By the end of it, I was glad I didn't place in the finals—I was just happy to get out of there."

"So if you don't like it that much, why are you planning on entering the tournament?" Yamcha took a sip of his own drink.

Zisha's eyes fell to a spot on the table. "Oh—well, you know," she fidgeted, "it's just something I think I should do . . . I mean, ever since I can remember, Dad—"

A buzz and a ring came from Yamcha's pocket.

"Sorry," Yamcha pulled his cell phone out and checked the caller. "I'll just be a minute," he looked at her apologetically.

Zisha almost appeared relieved.

"Hey, Skip," Yamcha answered, "what's going on?" He leaned back in his chair casually. "News about the contracts?"

Politely sipping her coffee while the other line drifted muffled, tinny sounds across the table from the speaker, Zisha's brow rose as she watched Yamcha's relaxed expression grow concerned.

"What do you mean they're not sure?" he sat up again.

Zisha fiddled with her napkin. The blender behind the coffee bar started up again, and the volume of Yamcha's voice rose.

"I know I was on the disabled list for a while but—yeah, I know," he began to frown. "But I wasn't even injured for that . . . look, I appreciate you covering for me and all, but I really—one hundred and twenty games? I have to do more?"

A teenaged couple brushed behind Zisha's chair, nudging it a little, and she had to steady her drink in her hand. She was relieved to see only a small amount had leaked from the lid when she was startled by a shout.

"Cheese Knees?" Yamcha slammed his hand on the table, knocking over his own cup. Mostly empty, only a few drops sprayed out as it toppled over the edge of the table. "They're calling me Cheese Knees? All because of some stupid excuse you had to make when—yeah, I know you needed to come up with something, but you didn't have to—what?"

Zisha bent down to pick up the fallen cup. When she came back up, she saw a pale look cross Yamcha's face.

"What do you mean I should give it up?" Yamcha listened to the muffled voice on the other end continue for some time. "Liability? But it's not," he insisted. "You know my martial arts training makes me a hundred times tougher than any of the players in the league! How could it be a liab—I don't care about the stupid policy! I'm _not_ injury-prone, and you know it!"

Resting her head in her hand, Zisha feigned interest in the view out the window. The night sky was brightened by the streetlamps and the window displays of the downtown shops. Several passing cars added their headlights to the glow, blurring past the window as they drove down the street. She watched as the movement of the lights twisted the shadows of passersby, attempting to keep her eyes off Yamcha as he talked. A few quick glances back to the one-sided conversation in front of her, however, belied her curiosity.

"Look, I know that it's tough on you," Yamcha rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, "especially with all the training breaks I take and the excuses you have to make, but I'm not going to stop fighting. Yeah, I know that they don't want me doing 'hazardous activities' or whatever, but couldn't we offer something else to make up for it? You got me a special dispensation last time . . ."

Something from the other end made Yamcha swallow hard. "There's more?"

Another curious glance came from the brown eyes across from him.

"Field errors? Look, it's not my fault he can't catch when I pass to him—I'm throwing as soft as I can! Clubhouse chemistry?" he blinked in surprise. "What does that even matter if I'm batting a thousand? Yeah, but—okay, for the record, I did _not_ start that fight," Yamcha defended. "And it was just a little rumble—all in good fun . . . well, if Pepper Johnson has a problem, he should learn to dodge better! Yeah, well I told you, I'm not going to stop fighting. Just . . . just do what you can, okay? Yeah, call me when you find out."

With a heavy sigh, Yamcha stuffed his phone in his pocket.

"Tough break, huh?" Zisha offered a sympathetic tone.

"You have no idea," his shoulders sagged. "Man, I thought being the best athlete in the league would be sure to keep my spot on the team—even get me a big contract," he crossed his arms with a pout and leaned back, "but now they're saying I've spent too much time on the disabled list. They think I'm—what was it? A flaky, apathetic, injury-prone, expensive liability. Can you believe that?"

Zisha cringed, decidedly uncomfortable. "Well . . ."

"Well?" Yamcha repeated, surprised at the hint of agreement in her voice. "What do you mean 'well?'"

"I just," Zisha blushed, "just think . . . well, from what I've read in the paper you . . ." she tapered off, unable to meet his eyes.

"I what? Come on, tell me," Yamcha tilted his head to block her staring at the table.

"You do kind of . . . disappear. That last article I read about you said you were recorded as missing over sixty-five games—and that you're on the disabled list for some kind of knee injury."

"That's just what I have my agent tell them," Yamcha fired back. "I'm almost always training or fighting somewhere."

"It just looks like you get injured a lot," Zisha explained. "I mean, those numbers add up, and I think they may not want to spend as much money on a player who can't always be there to hit the homeruns he's hired for."

"But . . . I . . ." the scarred fighter scratched his head, unable to come up with a response.

"Look, it's not really my business," her ears began to burn, "but I do follow some baseball here, and I used to be pretty good in college—I know you're a great hitter, Yamcha," she was still unable to look at him directly, "a phenomenal hitter, really . . . you just . . . you don't really play as part of the team. One of the reasons the South City Dragons were able to beat you guys in those games before was because of your fielding. You don't really communicate well with your teammates, and . . . and it kind of leads to errors in the field. No matter how many hits you get, the team needs everyone on the same page for a solid defence."

Yamcha's silence was difficult to read.

"Besides, since your stats are so insanely good," she continued, "it's just a matter of time before your opponents start changing their strategies. I wouldn't be surprised if they intentionally walked you every time you came up to the plate. In fact," she began to gain more confidence in her analysis, "I'm surprised they haven't started doing that already. It's the first thing I would do."

The scarred fighter made no audible response.

"Well, I mean," Zisha looked away quickly, "that's what I think, anyway."

Yamcha continued to blink at her.

"But what do I know?" she laughed nervously, trying to brush off her prior criticism. "I mean, I just played in college, and even though I got pretty fa—"

"No, you're right," Yamcha stopped her.

"I—" her brown eyes fell back on him slowly. "You think so?"

"Yeah," he smiled. "I mean, I'm no good at all with the technicalities of the sport. I'm a fighter really, not a ball player. I always just focused on getting hits. I could use some help in the other department, though."

"Well," Zisha's face brightened, "you know, if you don't think you could use my kickboxing lessons, maybe I could do some coaching instead to make up for the classes you paid for," she suggested, a warm smile coming to her face. "Like I said, I was pretty good in college—even coached a few times . . . of course, that was just little league, but still . . ."

As she continued speaking, her face grew more and more animated, and Yamcha's attention was distracted from her words by the lively movement of her hands and shoulders. Her smile had spread, and her brown eyes seemed illuminated by her exuberance as they focused solely on him.

Yamcha could not help but stare. "Yeah," he agreed softly. "That'd be nice."

* * *

><p>The lights flickered on with a slight buzzing as the door closed behind him. The interior of the ship was less than spacious, narrowing at the main entrance from the side of the hull to the tapered cockpit where only a single chair stood before the console.<p>

"_Initiating start-up_," an automated voice responded to the entry of the foreign occupant. "_Running diagnostic on all controls. Welcome back, Captain Tunen_."

Vegeta stepped into the compact space, removing the helmet he wore and tucking it under his arm. He cautiously rounded the captain's chair at the front to examine the faintly glowing controls. Several holographic screens flashed to life as the central computer scanned through its programmes and projected each window briefly in front of the tinted glass shell of the cockpit. The voice came on again.

"_Deflector shield in place, ninety-two percent power. All reactor-based weapons operational. Navigation system online. Fuel supply at sixty-three percent. Vocal recognition security temporarily disabled_."

_Disabled?_ Vegeta eyed the holographic panel that appeared in front of him, watching as information quickly scrolled upward and trying to pick out the cause. A set of environmental statistics popped up, and he was able to make out "irregularity in atmospheric conditions" and "use of respiratory equipment recommended for landfall" before they too scrolled out of sight.

_That's right_, he held the helmet back up in front of him, running his hand along the bottom. _The Tritekian needed the breathing apparatus—it must have distorted his voice and interfered with the security programme_.

"_Diagnostic complete. No errors detected. Awaiting command_."

Vegeta raised a hand to his chin, deliberating his next course of action. _It can't be that easy_, he hesitated, _can it?_

As he stared ahead, the projected screen in front of him continued to blink in wait. "_State your command_," it read.

He cleared his throat.

"Display the ship's registration," his voice was almost painfully loud in the empty ship.

There was a pause, and for a moment the scrolling, blinking, flashing control panel was still. Vegeta held his breath, bringing his hands to a defensive position.

"_Processing request, Captain Tunen_," the tinny voice finally came to life, resonating through the stillness. "_One moment_."

Vegeta lowered his hands.

"_Star Ship 'Zarigan,' registration number TR54682-PT749_," the computer answered. "_C-class fast attack craft with additional modifications to navigation, defensive shields, and offensive ballistics consistent with B and A class frigates. Commissioned and captained by Maguro Tunen, unaffiliated_."

A small smile of satisfaction spread across Vegeta's face at the wealth of information that began to display onscreen as the computerised voice carried on. _Jackpot_, he thought as he expanded the screen's view.

* * *

><p><em>I've got you no<em>w, Bulma smirked as she placed another two chips into the pot. She passed a quick glance to her right.

The head of Wright materials seemed fixated on the four centre cards. He leaned casually with one elbow on the table, but Bulma's eyes caught the flash of movement from his other hand as he flicked a single chip between his fingers.

"Fold," Levy sighed, tossing his cards to the dealer.

"Me too," Mark followed suit.

"Five hundred," Wright set a purple chip down and slid it to the centre.

Bulma watched carefully as his other hand continued to flick the other wayward chip from finger to finger. "Call," she placed her own bet down.

Sankey tilted the corner of his cards to peek at them, looked at the centre cards, and looked back at his own. Biting his lower lip, his brow turned upward in dismay at the sparse set of chips at his side. Resigned, he slid his cards forward. "Fold."

Feynman gave a quick glance to Bulma. The heiress ran a hand through her hair, brushing a few strands over her shoulder. Feynman's lips tightened in determination. "Call," she pulled a chip from her stack.

"Three players," the dealer stated, turning over another card. The king of hearts joined the ranks of two jacks, an ace of clubs, and a fellow monarch.

Wright tapped his fingers on the table. "Check."

Bulma wordlessly followed suit.

"Check," the dealer announced for the table. He turned to Feynman.

The blonde scientist made a show of adjusting her sizeable stack of winnings, trying to ignore the eyes on her, especially coming from her left. Without his cards, Russell Levy allowed his gaze to traverse the table, finally settling on the long legs Feynman had crossed away from him. She took a breath, calming her temper. When she had readied herself, she wordlessly set down another two chips.

"Bet," the dealer took them and pushed them toward the centre. "Seven hundred fifty."

Dan Wright eyed the Capsule Corporation employee shrewdly, examining each movement of her face and hands. With an almost imperceptible lift to the corner of his mouth, he set down a burgundy chip.

Bulma swallowed slightly. Wright had stopped twirling the chip between his fingers.

"Raise," the dealer helpfully clarified. "One thousand."

_How could he have something that good?_ she pondered. Her mind racing through the numbers, Bulma stared at the five cards in the centre. The jack of diamonds, the king of spades, the ace of clubs, the jack of hearts, and the king of hearts stared back at her from their supine position. Noting their order, she ran through the events of the round, from the first bets to the most recent folds, calculating. _It must have come from the last card_, she determined. _I don't see his tell anymore, so that means he's got something substantial this time. _Bulma's brow lowered slightly in thought. _Of all the cards he could have . . . to make a bet like that . . ._

Feynman watched her in apprehension.

Still staring at the central cards, Bulma struck her solution with a soft exhale. With a dramatic sigh, she passed her cards forward. "I guess it's too much for me this time," she smiled affably before resting her chin in her hand. She gave a quick flick of her eyes to Feynman.

"Fold," the dealer took the cards. "It's up to you, miss," he nodded to Feynman, "and sir," he turned to Wright.

Feynman paid no attention to the dealer as she examined Bulma's positioning. Her employer continued to smile, hand cupping her chin. Seeing Bulma's confidence, she resolutely moved her eyes to Dan Wright, matching his impassive gaze.

"Two thousand," the two chips clattered a little as she tossed them into the pot.

There was no hesitation. "Call," another two chips slid across the green felt, "and raise."

"Four thousand," the dealer collected them into the multicoloured pile in the centre.

With a set look on her face, Feynman continued to stare into the hard, expressionless dark eyes of her lone competition. "Call," she let drop another thousand.

"Four thousand," the dealer reiterated. "Show your hand, please."

Wright flipped over his cards with a slight, smug raise of his brows.

"Full house," the dealer pulled the cards in, arranging them to better show the table, "kings and aces."

With a cool look, Feynman turned over her pair of jacks.

"Mr. Wright's full house," the dealer swept the cards from the centre and replaced them, "loses to four jacks. Miss Feynman wins."

Sankey stared in near disbelief as the pile of chips was shoved toward his colleague. "Holy crap," he blinked as Feynman began to stack them into orderly piles.

Bulma resisted giving an 'I told you so' smirk. _Almost had me there, Mr. Wright_, she thought mockingly. _Close, but not close enough. By the end of this night, you'll be handing all your money over. It's just too bad for you that I've cracked your code._

"Jeez, looks like I won't need to be handing out any bonuses to you, Feynman," Mark shared in Sankey's admiration over her winnings for the round.

"Nope," Feynman answered with a smile that she turned ever so slightly toward Bulma. "As long as I keep this up, I'll get one tonight."

* * *

><p>"<em>Now displaying ship's log and accounts<em>," the speakers stated.

_At this rate_, Vegeta touched the projected screen with a gloved fingertip to scroll through the information, _I'll have everything I need before the end of the night_. He stopped when he came upon the list of docking fees.

"_Most recent port of entry: 8154JL, Planet Keiroy_."

"Keiroy," Vegeta murmured, staring hard at the coordinates in thought. "That's only about five million parsecs from here," he calculated. "If his fuel's at around sixty percent, he must have stopped there for a while—at least long enough to fuel up."

The entry on the screen blinked green, and Vegeta tapped it to open another file.

"_Keiroy: water bank planet of the Kaisen Cluster, population fiv—_"

"Yes, yes," Vegeta impatiently skipped through the basic information, "but where is the account information?" He swiped his fingers quickly across the side of the screen, flipping through the digital pages. Several numbers spread across the screen in orderly columns. His eyes scanned through them, his face tightening as he read through each one.

"Nothing?" he growled. "Nothing at all about who might have sent this piss-poor excuse for a hit man after me?" All the numbers before him appeared to be small sums, listed profits from odd transport jobs, and some dubiously filed ones that appeared more like smuggling operations. "Not a single one of these is large enough to be what I'm looking for," he clenched his fist. "Either that Tritekian was clever and managed to stash the information somewhere else or—computer," he addressed the room for the second option, "display all employers with more than five payments in the last three star cycles."

"_Processing request, Captain Tunen_," the computer responded. "_One moment_."

A new list was generated, sorting the transactions by employer, complete with contract date, cargo inventory, and point of sale. Vegeta read through the names, hunting for anything familiar. His mood did not improve.

He pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. "This is getting me nowhere," he shook his head slightly. "If I can't skip ahead to who sent the guppy here from the accounts, I'll have to retrace his steps."

He flicked his fingers across the screen, sliding the view to the previous pages about the most recent port.

"_Keiroy_," the computer automatically began to repeat the information embedded in the page, "_water bank planet of the Kaisen Cl—_"

"Oh, shut up about the damn planet stats," he snapped at the automated speakers, causing them to fall silent. "If you're going to talk, make it something useful, like the port clearance for that planet," he crossed his arms.

"_Processing request, Captain Tunen. One moment_," the computer answered. A few seconds passed. "_Unable to process. Please state your query in the form of a request_."

Vegeta's brow twitched. "Show me the current port clearance!" he shouted.

"_Processing request, Captain Tunen. One moment_."

Vegeta drummed his fingers on the computer console hard enough to leave slight dents where the pads of his fingers struck.

"_Docking clearance at Planet Keiroy valid for another ninety-six hours_," the screen read.

"At least that's still in my favour," Vegeta exhaled brusquely, finally stepping around the captain's chair and taking a seat. He sank a little into the high back of the chair and flexed his hands around the ends of the armrests in a familiar gesture. "Computer," he commanded, "open a correspondence file to Keiroy."

"_Processing request, Captain Tunen_," the automated voice resonated. "_One moment_."

He gave a quick, derisive breath. "Can't it respond with anything else?" he muttered.

* * *

><p>"Well, that's the last of the money I'll lose to you sharks," Mark pouted, standing up from his place at the table.<p>

"Same here," Levy rose. He stepped around Mark to lean over his boss. "Perhaps, Mr. Wright, you'd like to—"

"I'm staying," Wright gave him a cold look.

"But, sir," Levy leaned down to his ear, whispering harshly. "I really must advise against contin—"

"Get out of my face," Wright snapped at him, causing his assistant to shrink back. "I'll make it back," he insisted.

"It's okay if you want to pull out of the game," Bulma put on her nicest smile. There's nothing wrong with quitting while you're ah—"

"I'll make it back," Wright repeated, scowling at her.

"If you say so," she shrugged, "but I'm not sure how much longer you can hold out," she gave a smug glance to the small stack of chips in front of him.

Feynman had to bite her lip to keep from grinning at how red Dan Wright's ears were turning.

"Levy, get my chequebook."

"But, Mr. Wright, I can't—"

The glare Wright turned on the round man made him sweat.

"R-right away, sir," Levy swallowed before trotting off.

"Good riddance," Sankey muttered under his breath. Feynman gave him a faint smile.

Wright turned his attention back to Bulma. "I don't know how you've been doing it," he scowled at her, "but I'm going to win that money back."

"How I've been doing what?" Bulma twirled her hair innocently. "I'm not the one who's been winning all the hands."

"Yeah, Feynman," Sankey laughed. "You want to share some of that luck you've been having? Some of us are on our last legs," he indicated the scant smattering of chips in front of him.

"Aww, come on," she gave him a wry smile, "just a couple hands left now. It'll turn out all right." Her hand rested on his shoulder, and she gave him a wink, "promise."

Feeling his cheeks get hot, Sankey only nodded.

"Well, I know I need a drink after a game like this," Mark could not help but laugh at his subordinates. "How about it, Sankey?" he leaned down, sticking his face in-between the two Capsule Corporation technicians, causing Feynman to pull back and Sankey to blink at his intrusion awkwardly. "You need something to . . . cool down?"

Sankey's blush increased.

"I'll take that as a yes," Mark pulled back, still smug as he headed off among the corporate guests toward the bar.

"What was that about?" Feynman skewed a brow at her companion.

"N-nothing," Sankey stammered. "Hey, I think what's-his-face is coming back," he turned away from her questioning green eyes to point.

There was a murmuring among the milling crowd as Levy gracelessly ploughed his way to the table, chequebook in hand.

"About time," Wright grumbled, snatching it out of his assistant's hand as soon as the man arrived at his side.

"Now, sir," Levy whispered so softly to him that Bulma had to lean in slightly to hear, "you know that you can't go too far into the accounts yet. Once we've negotiated—"

"I know what I'm doing," Wright whispered back coolly.

"You're the boss," the sigh Levy gave was resigned.

"Let's play," Wright addressed the dealer.

* * *

><p>"Stop repeating every command I give!" Vegeta barked at the ship.<p>

"_Processing request, Captain Tunen. One moment_," the computer answered.

Vegeta ground his teeth.

"_Notice:_ _disabling voice command will switch console to password-protected mode. Are you sure you want to proceed?_"

"Obnoxious chatterbox," Vegeta grumbled. "Leave the voice commands," he rubbed his temples in irritation.

"_Processing request, Captain Tunen. One moment_."

_There's absolutely no way I'm flying out there in this ship_, he thought to himself. _Not for a trip that will last at least three days. I can hardly stand it as it is . . ._

In the open window, the cursor of the blank communiqué blinked back at him. Pulling himself up to the keypad on the console, he began to type.

"_Code 712: request transfer of docking clearance. Ship TR54682-PT749, 'Zarigan,' sustained damage in transit. All cargo and personnel unharmed, but unable to execute return trip. Transfer temporary landing and docking clearance to replacement ship EA03-PC762, 'Capsule 3.' Payment in full on arrival._"

Vegeta raised his hands from the keypad, cracking his knuckles as he read through the message. Checking each clipped piece of information, he gave a slight smirk.

_Let the Keiroy docks think the captain's still coming back_, he leaned back in the chair. _I'll make use of his clearance and keep any other potential assassins in the dark_. He tapped the button in the bottom left corner to send it.

"_Processing request, Captain Tunen._ _Sending message to Keiroy department of transport. One moment_."

Vegeta gave a withering glare at the speakers as the progress bar of the interstellar communiqué advanced, but he refrained from snapping back at it.

"_Your message has been sent_," the ship chimed.

"Good," Vegeta gave a quick grunt. "Now I can—"

"_Important notice_," the computer flashed a small warning light on the projected screen.

"What now?" he exhaled the last of his patience in a low growl.

"_Your message contains mention of damage to the ship, but no damage has been detected_."

Vegeta's fist clenched, shaking a little in frustration. He double-checked the screen and was assured by a "sent message" notice at the top.

The computer continued. "_Would you like to run a diagnostic scan and include a damage report?_"

"No," answered curtly. He headed toward the exit and away from the persistent, tinny voice for good. "No scan, no report." He opened the door.

"_Processing request, Captain Tunen._"

Vegeta stopped halfway through the exit, a vein throbbing in his forehead.

"_One mo—_"

The explosion from a Gallick Gun attack briefly lit up the clearing, rocking the nearby workstations and tents, and echoing dimly off the mountain slopes.

* * *

><p>Yamcha snapped his head up, gazing out through the streetlamps toward the central mountains.<p>

"What is it?" Zisha asked, stopping just a few steps ahead of him.

Yamcha fanned out his senses, trying to pick up the source of the disturbance he had just felt. For a fleeting moment, there had been something distant, a sharp spike of energy, but, just as quickly as it had appeared, it dissipated before he could pinpoint it. He shook his head, focusing back on the dimly lit sidewalk.

"Nothing, I guess," he shrugged, shaking his head.

He caught up with her and the two matched pace as they headed down the sidewalk. Their shadows faded and reappeared each time they passed under the yellow glow of the next streetlight, and the nearby hum of the highway cars had lulled into a muted echo. The sounds of the downtown centre drifted farther behind them as they headed down the street, beside the column of parked cars and under the stars, dimmed by the perpetual lights of the city.

"So what were you thinking of covering during the practices?" Yamcha asked her, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Oh, you know, just some basics," Zisha pulled up the zipper on her jacket so it covered her neck. "Probably work on your fielding first."

"What, you mean like playing catch?"

"No," she rolled her eyes at him. "I mean like strategy. I'm sure the Taitans put you as shortstop because you've got all this athletic training, but you have to think about where you're going to throw the ball first, you know."

"You just throw it to the guy in front of the runner, right?" Yamcha scrunched his face up a little in confusion. "It doesn't take that much thought."

"You've got a lot to learn," Zisha sighed. "You're thinking individually. You need to be working with the rest of your team, thinking about what's best for your team's defence in the field."

"In the field, huh?" Yamcha scratched his chin. "That'll be new. Most of the time before spring training I just hit the batting cages a couple of times for practice."

"Well, that's going to have to change if you want to make sure you keep your agent and the team happy enough to give you a decent contract. You'll need the real deal."

"Have you got a place in mind?" he asked, glancing over at her. "Because I think I know a field that could work. It's a little run-down and on the other side of the city, but I figure that just means there wouldn't be a lot of cameras around."

"That'd be good," the wind picked up, and she folded her arms to keep them warm. "I'd imagine it might get a little crowded at one of the better-known parks—you being such a celebrity around here and all."

"Hey, I'm not the only one," he grinned. "Didn't you say you're pretty big in your own town?"

"Yeah, but coming here I get to enjoy at least a little anonymity," she returned his smile. "Back in South City, I could never dream of going out for a jog in the park just to see the sunset," she sidestepped a post box, stepping quickly off her left foot. "It was all private gyms and stuff."

Yamcha watched as she set her stride back to its regular pace after the obstacle, noting that she still seemed to be favouring her left side. "I'm sorry I ended up interrupting it then," he apologised genuinely.

She noticed his gaze and tried to brush his concern aside. "No, really, you don't have to apologise. You already bought me a coffee."

"Yeah, but it seems like your sunset jogging time is pretty special to you—and I came along and messed it up."

"Don't worry about it," she assured him. "I had a good time anyway. Besides," she spread her full lips into a soft smile, "there'll be other sunsets to see."

She stopped in front of a small yellow coupe, pulling out a small set of keys. "Well, this is me," she looked back at him.

The streetlights shone down on her skin in a honeyed hue, shadowing around her brown eyes and the curve of her lips. The swell of her hips pooled a rounded shadow on the ground and spread when she shifted, trim form clear even through her jogging jacket. Yamcha blinked. "Um, well—uh, we didn't really decide on a time when we should hold those baseball practices."

"Well, how about Saturdays?" she suggested.

"Uh, well—I was planning on training on Saturdays with my friend," Yamcha hesitated, remembering his earlier agreement with Krillin.

"Oh, okay then," she leaned against the side of her car, twirling the keys on her finger as she thought. "Well, I'm giving kickboxing lessons Monday through Thursday, so why don't we try Friday? I'm free all day Fridays."

"Yeah, that'll work," Yamcha agreed. "I'll see what time works best for that field. It might be a little more empty at night or early in the morning."

"All right then," she stepped around to the driver's side of the car, unlocking the door. "You tell me when, and I'll be there waiting," she gave him one last smile before ducking into the coupe and shutting the door. The passenger window rolled down and she leaned over a little. "Don't flake out on me now, Cheese Knees!" she teased as she started up the engine.

Yamcha waved a little as she backed out of the space and drove off. When the last of her tail lights had disappeared, he turned to head down the sidewalk and made his way back toward Capsule Corporation.

* * *

><p>The dealer turned over the seven of diamonds. "Check or bet?" he asked.<p>

"Check," Sankey tapped his fingers on the table.

"Scaredy cat," Feynman teased him, but followed suit with her own check.

"And you, sir?" the dealer directed his question to Dan Wright.

"Five thousand," he spread a line of burgundy chips in front of him, but kept his eyes focused on Bulma.

Bulma maintained her gaze on the central cards, measuring out the odds. The nine of diamonds, three of hearts, ace of spades, and newly-arrived seven sat lined up in that order. Never moving her head or changing her expression, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye—a slight tremor that ran through Dan Wright's hand. Taking note of his lack of chips, she drew her conclusions quickly.

_Fee, fie, fo, fat—I smell the bluff of a corporate brat_, she smothered her smile inward. _Even without a chip in your hand I can see right through you_.

"Five to call," the dealer invited.

Bulma dropped a single brown chip down on the centre of the green felt table.

"More than my job's worth," Sankey's shoulders slumped at his remaining chips and the price of staying in the game. "Fold," he pushed his cards to the dealer, and picked up his gin and tonic to sulk in it.

Feynman cast him a sympathetic glance before turning back to her opponent. "I'll see your five thousand," she set down her chips with a definitive clatter.

The dealer turned over the king of spades.

Feynman glanced down at the two chips Wright had left in his possession. She confirmed with a flick of her hair to her boss, and set down another three chips.

"Five thousand," she set them down.

"Bet, five thousand," the dealer repeated.

Wright clenched his fist under the table. With a scowl, he shoved the remaining thousand in chips toward the centre. "All in," he declared curtly, "and raise." He pulled out his chequebook, and began to scribble something out harshly. "Ten thousand," he signed his name on the cheque and set it on top of the pile.

Bulma examined his clenched free hand carefully from her view next to him. Though tense, it was no longer shaking as it had before. Checking the cards in the centre again, she gave a quick glance to Feynman, who was successfully reigning in her surprise. _He's counting on that last king to change his luck_, Bulma mulled it over in her head. _If he was bluffing before, and now he's got something worth a ten thousand dollar bet, that could only be . . ._

"Well, someone's certainly confident," she leaned back in her chair, giving a playful smile to the man next to her. "I know I'm not willing to bet that kind of money on this hand," she passed her cards forward. "Fold."

"Two players," the dealer explained. "Bet is ten thousand."

Feynman toyed with her earring a little before glancing over in Bulma's direction. Her boss was cupping her chin again smugly, while she quickly ran her hand through her hair near the crown of her head.

_King_, Feynman read the signal, looking down at the table. _Just one, or—_

Bulma brushed her hand through her hair again.

_He's got two of them_, her eyes widened a little in understanding, before she steeled her expression again. _Well, that won't save you the round, jerk_. "Call," she put her chips in.

"Feynman," Sankey looked at her, concerned. "Are you sure? I mean, ten thousand—"

She nudged him a little in the ribs, spilling his drink a little onto his lap. "I got this," she whispered harshly to him.

"Okay, okay, jeez," he started blotting at the stain with his jacket sleeve.

"Show your hand, please," the dealer gestured to Dan Wright.

Wright turned over his cards slowly and confidently, revealing both the king of clubs and the king of hearts. He leaned back a little, clasping his hands together, and the faintest movement could be seen pulling at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile.

"Three kings," the dealer set them above the five central cards.

Almost casually, Feynman tossed her cards to the centre.

The two aces looked up at Dan Wright from the table, and any movement upward his lips had been heading immediately halted.

"Trip aces," the dealer gathered the two cards and placed them near the centre, raising its mate from the line-up. "Aces win."

Feynman leaned forward with a broad grin, sweeping the pile of chips toward her. Her green eyes held a glint in them as she put what she could of the pile into her carrying box and set the cheque on top of it. "So, should I just write my name on the cheque myself," she teased, "or did you want to fill that part out?"

Dan Wright glared from one woman to the other, not quite sure whether to direct his anger at the beaming Feynman, or the silent and self-satisfied Bulma. He settled on the source.

"It's just not your night tonight, is it?" Bulma gave a little false pout to him when he focused his attention on her.

"I don't think the night had much to do with it," he scowled and stood up to leave.

"Oh, lighten up," Bulma scooped her own winnings into her clutch and got up to follow him. "It's just a game."

"And what other games have you been playing?" Wright snorted derisively. "Besides poker?"

"Oh, I'm not playing anymore."

He gave her a long look. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"What did you lose tonight?" she answered casually, seemingly interested in her nail polish. "Eighty-two thousand?"

Wright's face darkened further. "You were the one keeping count," his nose wrinkled in distaste. "You tell me."

"Yes, you seem to run into quite a lot of trouble with numbers, don't you?"

Wright folded his arms as they continued walking, making their way through the crowd.

"Well, eighty thousand or whatever, that must be just a drop in the bucket for you."

He did not respond as they broke from the crowd into a more secluded space in the corner of the great hall.

"I mean, it's not like it's two hundred million."

Dan Wright stopped in his tracks. Whirling round to face her, his eyes were wide. "Two hun—how did you—"

"I don't intend to be caught off-guard, Mr. Wright, and I don't like being misled," Bulma gave a little movement of her head to indicate they should move farther from the crowd. The sounds of chattering employees and spinning roulette wheels ceased as the two bosses exited the great hall and stepped into a narrow corridor from the lobby.

"Now listen here, Brief," Wright's voice came out in a furious whisper. "I never—"

"You deliberately set out to make your company look like more than it's worth by covering up your debts," Bulma's tone was even as she interrupted him. "You were hoping our merger would help cover your dirty laundry."

Wright had no response but an angry exhale.

Bulma put her hands on her hips, relishing getting such a reaction from the stone-faced CEO. "Well, don't bet on that happening. You're in the hole," she could not help but smirk a little when Wright winced at her observation, "and you need my company to pull you out—something I'm only willing to allow under certain . . . conditions . . ."

A vein was beginning to throb in the man's neck. "What . . . what kind of conditions," the acquiescence sounded so painful for him to express, it hardly came out as a question.

"You've been a very difficult business partner lately," she stated simply. "Tomorrow morning we have our negotiations—you're going to be more than cooperative with me, regardless of what our demands are."

He nearly choked on the bile that rose up. "You can't be serious!"

Bulma levelled a deadly serious gaze at him.

"I won't . . . I won't allow the company my father built to just . . . just be absorbed!" he whispered fiercely.

"The way I see it," Bulma shifted her weight on her hips, "you don't have much of a choice." Opening up her clutch, she pulled out the new prototype phone from the day's demonstration. "All it would take would be one little leak to the papers back home . . ."

Wright's eyes widened.

"And since I'm the only one with service, I don't think your assistant could do much to counter the story until later tomorrow . . ."

"You wouldn't," his face was somewhere between indignation and fear.

"You don't know me, Mr. Wright."

* * *

><p>"Where do you think the bosses went?" Feynman dropped the cheque into her purse.<p>

"Beats me," Sankey shrugged, picking up his few remaining chips. His face fell a little at the meagre weight they put in his pocket.

"Here," Feynman cut a large section of the chips on the table over to him.

"What? N-no way Feynman, I couldn't," he stammered out. "That's got to be a few thousand at least!"

"I know that, dummy," she blew some of her bangs out of her face, "and I think you should have it."

"But I—"

"Just take it," she snapped at him. "I've got more here than I even know what to do with, anyway."

"Okay, okay," Sankey scooped up an armful. "If you're going to _force_ me . . ." he rolled his eyes sarcastically.

"You can keep those," she grabbed the rest of them from the table, "just help me bring them over to the exchange counter." She brusquely turned round and headed off into the crowd, Sankey trotting behind her trying not to drop any of the winnings.

"So, uh," Sankey caught up with her, "you sure showed that Wright guy, huh?"

"He deserved it," Feynman sniffed haughtily. "Brushing me off like he was too good for me . . ."

"So you . . . um, you don't like him anymore?"

"Not in the least. The guy has no personality whatsoever—and definitely no taste."

Sankey started grinning at her change in opinion. "So I was right all along?"

"Don't push it," Feynman cast a sharp glance at him

They reached the exchange counter, and Feynman dumped the vast array of chips down. As the attendant began sorting through the multicoloured pile, the two technicians caught sight of their employer.

"Like the cat and the canary," Feynman grinned at the smug expression on Bulma's face.

"You two enjoying yourselves?" the blue-haired heiress sauntered over with a swish of her red dress.

The employee at the exchange counter doled out a stack of bills and slid them over to Feynman. The blonde scientist picked them up and ran her thumb across the edge, making a riffling sound. "I sure am."

Bulma set down her clutch and pulled out several chips with large denominations for exchange.

"You aren't going to play any more tonight?" Sankey asked, trying to figure out a way to fold the fat stack of bills he received from Feynman.

"I got what I needed tonight," Bulma picked up her own set of bills. "I'll be turning in early—got a big meeting in the morning, you know." She closed her clutch and turned with a final wink at Feynman. "Enjoy your bonus."

"Bonus?" Sankey asked as their boss left. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Feynman shrugged her purse on. "Just a little girl talk," she answered innocently. "You know, 'hell hath no fury' and all—anyway, you want a drink?"

"What?" Sankey blinked at her change in topic. "You mean, with you?"

"You see someone else asking you?" she gave him a pointed look.

"Um," he swallowed to get his heart out of his throat, "uh, yeah . . . sure."

The two made their way from the exchange counter to the bar, Feynman taking the lead and settling herself down on a barstool with a smooth crossing of her legs. Sankey followed her, hesitantly taking the seat next to her. He stole a quick glance down at her feet, and noticed they were pointed in his direction.

"Gin and tonic, right?" she asked, startling him.

"Uh, right," he loosened his tie to ease the constriction around his throat.

The bar had few patrons at the moment, and Feynman had no problem hailing over the bartender to take their order. Catching sight of Sankey, the bartender took a quick glance between him and Feynman, and gave the faintest of congratulatory smirks. Sankey only crossed his fingers in return while he waited for him to finish making their drinks.

Turning back to the woman beside him, Sankey struggled with what to say. The low-hanging antler chandeliers above were dimmed around the bar area and cast Feynman's long neck and delicate collar bones in a muted hue. She was fiddling with her purse, trying to decide what to do with it, and Sankey enjoyed the rare expression of slightly flustered confusion that crossed her face. Finally settling on slinging the bag over the back of her barstool, she turned her attention back to him.

"What?" she asked, as if daring him to make fun of her.

"Nothing," Sankey shifted his attention back to the bartender, who was setting a vodka martini and a gin and tonic in front of them. "Just . . . just um," he watched her hand pull a few stray strands of dark blond hair from her eyes. "Just . . . thanks," he settled his answer, gesturing to the drinks. "Thanks, Feynman," he smiled.

"Tracy," she set her money down and passed him his drink.

"What?" he tilted his head, confused.

"My first name," she looked away from him quickly, but not before he caught a flash of pink across her cheeks. "It's . . . it's Tracy."

He blinked a little at her as she stared deeply into her drink. It seemed she was trying to look anywhere but at him, and ultimately failing, he noted, as the flash of her green eyes flitted back to him. His smile spread. "I'm Nick," he responded with a relaxed tone. "Nice to meet you," he extended his hand, "again."

Tracy Feynman looked at the open hand in front of her with relief and turned back a little face him. "Likewise, Nick," she put her hand in his and gave it a little shake before picking up her glass.

"To unexpected bonuses?" she raised her drink in invitation.

Nick Sankey clinked his own against hers. "Unexpected is right."

* * *

><p>Bulma shut the door to her hotel room and leaned against it with a self-satisfied grin. "Not only am I a technological genius," she gloated to herself, "but I'm going to close the biggest business deal of the century for next to nothing!"<p>

She stretched up her arms over her head and walked over to her portable workstation. Plopping herself down on the chair, she unbuckled her heels from her feet and turned to her laptop screen. "And nothing gets me motivated quite like success," she beamed, unlocking the password key with a flourish.

The laptop chimed to life and she resumed her satellite scan over the eastern archipelagos. Several images stacked up, one on top of the other, as the satellite continued to travel northward on its polar orbit. The photos began to display the coastline of the mainland, magnifying the shots of unpopulated beaches, panning ever upward.

As the images loaded, Bulma reached into her clutch, pulling out a pack of slim cigarettes and an old, brushed steel lighter. With a quick flick of the top lid, it opened with a clink, and she lit up a congratulatory smoke before turning her gaze back on the screen.

Dragging several images to the fore, she zoomed in, her eyes searching each view of the surf and sand until the images began to show more inland hills. She peered as closely as she could into the valleys and crags, exhaling a thin tendril of smoke before pursing her lips together in concentration.

"Nothing?" she grumbled. "Nothing at all about that maniac doctor?" Her brow furrowed, and she flicked the lid of her lighter open and shut in an agitated motion.

She clicked a few more images as the satellite travelled further north, her eyes boring into the birds-eye view of the foothills around the eastern capital. Green slopes gave way to a few squared-off fields chequering the landscape, and a meandering river wove its way back toward the coast. Her lighter opened and closed with a few more clinks and clunks.

"Come on, come on," she sifted through more photos, "I've got to find this guy before he—"

"_Doctor Gero hasn't made the androids yet_," Goku's light-hearted voice popped into her mind, "_so he hasn't done anything wrong. Well, we just have to wait_."

She shook her head. "No," she jutted out her chin a little defiantly, "I'm not waiting around for some crazy scientist to just wipe out my friends with a bunch of killing machines." She continued magnifying the images as they appeared on her screen. "It just doesn't make any sense to wait," she insisted. "We should get him before he has a chance to get us."

As the images of fields gave way to the outer suburbs of East City, Bulma's eye caught on the sudden change of colour. The white, rounded houses stopped abruptly, and the ground was marked by a brown, burnt scar, curved on the edges into an arc. As more photos appeared, she recognised the image as an enormous crater right in the middle of the city. Small sections of it had some bits of what appeared to be scaffolding and construction zones, but the space, for the most part, remained dark and barren.

"We never . . ." she took her cigarette from her lips, "never . . . wished them back. We never had a chance to wish back East City," she remembered, staring at the miniscule attempts at reconstruction within a sea of scorched earth. "We didn't have the dragonballs," she blinked at the sight, "and now . . . after more than a year . . . we can't . . ."

Bulma snuffed out her cigarette, looking away from the screen for a moment. Her hand clutched the smooth metal lighter in her other hand, rubbing her thumb over the engraved surface.

"_Yeah, that Vegeta is nothing but trouble. He's so unpredictable—it's hard to tell what his motives are_," Krillin's words drifted across her mind.

With a deep breath, she brought her eyes back on the images.

"Things have changed," she reassured herself. "After all that happened with Namek and that Frieza guy, things are different now." She set her shoulders confidently, sitting up a little and resuming her search.

"Things are different now," she reiterated, scanning through the images that depicted the northern curve of the crater, "and everyone's changed so much. I mean, Piccolo used to be a bad guy just a few years ago . . . all it took was a little time . . . and," she quirked a brow, "and a super-powered kid . . ."

"_Bulma! Hey, I hope you have a healthy baby!_"

Her hand hovered over the laptop's mouse for a moment. "I don't know what Goku was thinking," she huffed. "He's crazy . . . he's crazy for thinking I'm pregnant, and he's crazy for waiting around and letting Doctor Gero build those androids," she assured herself. "All those muscle-heads are crazy—the whole lot of them."

She thought back to that afternoon in the dry wasteland where they had met up with Goku and heard the strange news from the future—how all her friends seemed so eager to go into battle against an enemy that was certain to kill them, how her brilliant plan had been immediately shot down—

Her face darkened. "Of all the guys there," she flicked open the lid of her lighter, "I would've thought _he'd_ at least be okay with a pre-emptive strike."

The lid clunked down again.

"I mean, Piccolo may have changed a lot, but him? It just doesn't make any sense," her eyes again fell on the screen, where she could see more of the reconstruction effort around the edges of the charred basin. "It's not like he grew a sense of conscience or honour overnight. So why was he so defensive about taking out the doctor?"

With a scowl, she recalled the shouting match they had gotten into over her idea to use the dragonballs for locating Gero. "And really, saying it would take me too long to find the dragonballs. It's ridiculous!" She turned back to the screen.

Sighing, she ran a hand through her hair and let it tumble over her shoulders in messy waves. "Those idiots can play noble warriors all they want—I'll get to the root of the problem and nip it in the bud." She began checking the onscreen photos again.

"_. . . he hasn't done anything wrong . . ._"

"But he _will_," she grit her teeth. "I'm not waiting around."

"_But that boy said those androids were strong enough to wipe us all out! Why do you want to rush off and meet them head on?_ _Think about it, guys! You don't want to fight them!_"

"_No, we don't—but it looks like we have to_."

The next few clicks on her laptop mouse were harder than necessary. "Even Tien and Chiaotzu got swept up in it . . . it's not brave—it's stupid." She minimized a few of the windows to check the photos underneath. "And I can't believe Yamcha agreed with the—" she cut her tirade short when her eyes caught the time displayed in the bottom right corner.

She slapped a hand to her face in consternation. "Dammit, I completely forgot," she moaned. "I was so caught up in this business deal and the androids that I never called him!" She peered out from between her fingers to see the accusing glare of 2:23am on her screen.

"Well, it's too late now," she gave a long breath and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms as she deliberated, "and I've got an early meeting tomorrow morning." She closed the lid on the laptop and stood up.

With the screen now shut, the room fell into a darkness that was only interrupted by the softly reflected starlight from the snow outside her window. The faint outline of her shadow lingered over her lab equipment before she turned away.

As she walked over to her capsule closet to pull out her sleep wear, she paused, glancing back at the workstation, where her laptop's standby light pulsed slowly in the darkened room.

"_Well, we just have to wait_," Goku's voice echoed in her memory.

With a pout, she turned round and continued across the room. "For now," she muttered.

* * *

><p>AN: Working on getting everyone in the same general area for the next chapter, so hold your shipping horses for just a little bit longer.<p>

Name puns!

_Russell Levy_: Russell like the verb "rustle," as in acquiring, procuring, getting, and Levy like "raise or impose a tax or toll." He's got greedy money puns.

_Sal_ Menendez: I have named my made-up lacklustre pitcher of the Taitans based on the canonical name of the man who bats just before Yamcha in ep. 10: Pepper Johnson. I imagined if one guy could be named after pepper, another could be named after salt. Hence, "Sal," Spanish for "salt."

_Maguro Tunen_: basically, "Tuna Tuna." Maguro, for you sushi connoisseurs, comes in all sorts of varieties, but is a general term in Japanese for tuna; "Tunen" originally stemmed from my playing around with the name "Neptune" (remember the "Triton" bit of the "Tritek" pun), but ended up being much more fun as a tuna alternative. Plus, if I can turn my pun into a food, I will.

Star ship _Zarigan_: comes from the Japanese "Zarigani," meaning "crayfish."

Planet _Keiroy_: I messed around with the vowels of the Japanese word "Kairui," which means "shellfish."

_Kaisen_ Cluster: "Kaisen," Japanese = "seafood."

The classification of star ships is roughly based on the system used on the hulls of US Navy ships (I'm actually a Coast Guard brat, but the classification works the same); I actually went in and lengthened the numbering considerably, but it ends up something like this:

[Planet of Origin Initials] [Serial Number] - [Classification Initials] [Date of Manufacture]

Yeah, I'm a bit anal retentive. Anyway, as for the classifications, _technically _a PT boat is a "patrol torpedo" boat, but I could not for the life of me think of a better way to abbreviate a "fast attack craft" ("FAC" is just _so_ graceless). Thus, despite the fact that there is a shortage of torpedoes in space, Tunen's ship is still classified under PT. PC was my shorthand for a "private craft." The dates are based on the Dragonball timeline, which can be found on the Dragonball wiki site.

_Trac_y Feynman and _Nick_ Sankey: you guys have known already that the surnames of these two come from charts, as does Mark Pareto's. What you might have also noticed here, however, is that each of these guys' first names relates to a system of writing or indicating something on a chart. Mark and Tracy are pretty self-explanatory, but Nick is a stretch. I'd imagine you can think of it as a variation on "tick," or, as I had originally thought of it, putting a notch into something. In any case, that was the original idea for their names.

If you think this is elaborate, just wait until we get into space and encounter more aliens with their own groups of puns!


End file.
